Phoenix Rising
by Ravensara
Summary: Agent Pendergast turns to the only person he can think of who might be able to help him cheat death. The sequel to my previous short story entitled, "Unlikely".
1. Chapter 1

1

The process seemed damnably slow. It was a struggle to recreate the world the way it had been back when he'd first begun the specific meditations in Tibet when he'd been much younger. His mind wandered and strange features arose or entire sections of the city blurred into bizarre formations. Now and then his mind was nothing but swirling patterns in stained glass, but at least he recognized what the phenomenon was and could wait it out rather than try and fight it. It seemed that time passed in the city he sought to build building by building and street by street, for sometimes he witnessed the sun's early rays warming the structures farthest to the east and at other times he watched the unfinished memory cool to blues and blacks while celestial bodies peppered the sky. Something was terribly wrong. That was the only thing he knew for certain: his failure indicated possible brain damage. What he did not know yet was its extent.

He imagined himself lying upon his own bed in the Beaux-Arts mansion on Riverside Drive in Manhattan's Upper West Side. It was strangely cold in the room. He shivered and failed to make himself comfortable. _I must be gravely injured_, he thought, wondering how much time had passed since he had last been conscious. Penumbra would have felt more comforting to him, and his suite at The Dakota would have made him feel more in control, but the old, rambling mansion was where he had last seen her, and so it was there that he decided to return.

Since their last meeting, he had dreamed of her fleetingly. He'd notice a presence lurking in the background that bore some vague resemblance to her, but if he attempted to pursue or question the apparition, it either coalesced into someone else or became belligerent, steadfastly denying it was whom he'd thought. She had become more a creature of his memory than his dreams and this disappointed him, for since their meeting he wished fervently that they would meet again so that he might fully explore every possibility she represented.

He had intentionally left the mansion unpopulated. Constance's presence would no doubt comfort him and perhaps even offer him clues to his malady. If he so desired, he could even conjure up the dead, famous figures, or even fictional ones. At the moment he was too weak to concentrate beyond convincing himself that he was someplace safe—at least within his own mind.

He drifted in and out of sleep, it seemed. His rational mind told him he was merely losing hold of his fantasy sporadically. He longed for sleep if it would return her to him. She had arrived the first time because she'd sensed a need within him to repair his psyche. She had been real, he knew, for there was actual footage of her recorded by various sources, he kept the clothing she had worn locked within a special box in his basement, and her hair had been analyzed for DNA.

Thus far no one could identify her, although plenty of people swore she resembled this person or that. When he sometimes replayed the recording of their sparring together in his gymnasium, he'd see enough of her to judge her features as perfectly symmetrical with an evenly pale countenance, dark lashes, and strangely deep black hair that almost appeared blue in the right light. It was said that humans appreciated the beauty of symmetry to the point that those judged to be the most physically attractive people really only had the most symmetrical, and therefore actually plain features!

She had been pretty for a girl her age. He had thought her his anima: the manifestation of his own feminine traits. But Constance and Vincent and Proctor had described a stranger appearing abruptly in their midst to claim her. He had deduced that she was the product of a dream research facility, and therefore not a thing he himself had created. Constance had spoken a name, and he had vanished from his seat, leaving this large, brown-haired fellow with a cleft chin in his wake that the girl had reacted strongly to. She had indicated to him that she'd had a partner, and so it was supposed the odd man had been he. At random moments he, too, had spoken the man's name aloud, but no one appeared as if by magic. He sometimes murmured her name, but it failed to kindle dreams of her.

The clothing he retained defied contemporary technology, the fabric seemingly grown as colored garments, manufactured not as woven threads but as something perfected to the molecular level so that the soft red short-sleeved top and the inky black denim-look leggings were without seams or hems of any kind, marred by not a single stitch! And the suede-like black boots proved to never have been part of any animal, but made of a material that simply did not exist anywhere on Earth!

The hair he'd had preserved intact, minus what had been used for the DNA test. Human? Yes, but matching no known databases. The strangest bit being that while it actually possessed deoxyribonucleic acid and ribonucleic acid, it was smooth to the cellular level and nearly impossible to destroy! Normal hair is made of miniscule overlapping scales or sheaths. The sample he prized might have been designed by a master geneticist attempting to improve on the human specie.

He'd nodded off and woke in a chair. This intrigued him, for it hinted that he was prepared to abandon the comfort of what he knew for the peril of what he did not. His shirt was partially unbuttoned and untucked, his loose tie askew, his belt seemed to be missing, and there were no socks between his feet and his shoes. It took considerable effort to motivate himself to push into a standing position, and then he'd had to lean against the arms of the chair until he'd felt strong enough to walk. He had to get over the bridge to where she had indicated. A place called ArtReal, or maybe StarNet. Places no one he had connections with had been able to find.

It took forever to get to the front doors, and then he rested against them, weary. His disheveled appearance indicated only that there was something terribly wrong with his physical form and mattered not in this version of New York he had manufactured. When the door finally swung aside, he saw a strange orange sky marred with streaks of dark blue and green clouds. The Silver Wraith was parked beneath the porte cochere, and as he dragged himself toward it, he willed it to be something faster, something he could zip through town in. When he got to the side of the Maserati, he patted himself down in search of keys until the driver's side door popped open obligingly. He dropped behind the steering wheel, unable to suppress a grin at the nearly overpowering stink of new car aroma. He started the vehicle by depressing a button and there was a faint vibration followed by a subtle purr. The doors locked automatically, but he had to manually adjust the seat and mirrors to his liking. He put it in gear and removed his foot from the brake, allowing the car to roll forward. He reached the end of the driveway and pulled onto the street, heading for the George Washington Bridge.

Drowsy, his eyelids feeling like they each weighed a ton, he tuned in the radio to a classical station and was soon fast asleep behind the wheel.

Below him lay chill water, cracked and broken like the hide of a wallet. As he watched dully, a black sedan tumbled with unusual slowness and grace until it struck the leather-like surface, tearing foamy white rents in it. He gripped the handrail and squinted, the breeze strong, ruffling his hair. It had been a shocking moment. Inhaling deeply twice, he prepared to climb that he might dive after it. Would she be there again, in the nick of time, rescuing him from probable death? Did his current vision indicate that his physical form was in fact close to death? He glanced up for a final look at the city…and saw it was wrong. His mental state was clearly faltering. There were buildings with odd silhouettes and structures where there should not have been any and empty spaces that ought to've been filled with hotels or offices. The struggle lay in not giving up, not giving in. He was literally fighting for his life and had no idea who else he might turn to.

A horn blared, and he jumped, clinging to the rail as he turned.

"Hey, Buddy, you need a ride somewhere?"

The improbable figure gestured from within a warm yellow sedan with a checkered pattern along the sides.

Patting himself down, he wondered if he could talk his way out of paying the cab fare.

"Get in," the stranger grunted. "I seen what you was thinkin'. Not today, all right? Give it one more sunrise."

The man thought he'd been contemplating suicide. Grateful, he left the pedestrian walkway and climbed into the passenger seat when he saw that the back seat was occupied.

"Don't mind her," said the cabbie, an African-American just beginning to show hints of silver in his moustache and very short hair. "This is a weekly thing for her. Don't make the dog bark, and she'll never know you were here."

The man turned for a glimpse of an old woman, overdressed in fashions too youthful for her, dozing under a heavy layer of makeup and a stiff blonde wig, an aging Yorkshire terrier asleep on her lap. Large paper bags from the most upscale boutiques surrounded her. He could still smell the nail products she'd had applied during a recent manicure.

"Where you goin'?"

"I'm looking for a facility known as ArtReal or StarNet."

The driver's brow creased as he skillfully kept up with traffic. "That's a new one." As he drove, he pushed a button mounted on his steering wheel. A soft feminine voice acknowledged him and he asked aloud, "ArtReal."

There was a pause followed by, "At the end of the bridge, keep right."

The man shrugged. "Guess she found it. Is it some kind of club or somethin'? Not to be nosy or anything."

"I have been lead to believe it is a type of research facility."

"You're not from here, are ya?" The man grinned and shook an index finger at his passenger. "Let me guess, man, N'awlins, right? Am I right?"

"You are correct."

"Is this some kind of a business visit, then?"

"I may be touring the facility," came the reply.

"Yeah, I kind had you pegged for some kind of tight-laced, upscale CEO or somethin'. Hey…are you government?"

The man had glanced down to find himself neatly attired in his preferred custom-tailored dark suit, his shirtsleeves a tad stiff with starch and sporting muted silver abalone cufflinks. Patting his chest, he felt his badge wallet in place beneath the wool. Upon his feet he wore somewhat plain, but classic English leather shoes made to his specifications. He inhaled in surprise and was even able to detect a hint of cologne; green oranges with an undertone of talc. He lifted a hand and caressed the top of his head, finding every hair in place as though freshly styled. His cheek was smooth and free of stubble. "Something to that effect," he answered vaguely, with a faint smile.

The GPS directed them along the river until it said to take a right turn toward it, then a left at the end of the road. From there they could see a squat, grey building with minimal landscaping around it, a parking lot out front presided over by a guard shack. "You have reached your destination."

"I don't think I've ever noticed this place before," the driver mentioned, allowing the sedan to coast toward the tall, skinny structure beside a yellow and black striped gate. From where he stopped they could make out a semi-circle shaped logo featuring the name of the place topped with a pale starburst.

The guard was on the phone. "Dropping off or picking up?" he queried, covering the mouthpiece.

"Dropping off?" the cabbie asked, receiving a nod. He nodded as he turned back and repeated, "Dropping off."

"Right ahead," they were told, and the arm was manually raised, allowing them to pass.

"It's paid for," the driver told the man who exited, jerking a thumb toward the elderly woman in the rear. "Call if you need us," he added, smiling and nodding before pulling away.

The tall, lean man adjusted his attire and stood gazing at the structure. It looked basically rectangular with one corner chopped off to make a more aesthetically pleasing entrance. The front doors were glass. He pulled and found himself before another set of doors. The second set you had to push. The place was clean, sparsely decorated, with wood paneling behind two opposed receptionists' stations, one featuring the ArtReal logo again in brushed silver, the other a blue steel logo spelling out StarNet and featuring a pentacle in place of the letter A. He wondered if it suggested an occult reference like the old Nazi swastika, or merely indicated some type of law enforcement activities. There was a figure standing before the StarNet desk, leaning heavily against it, speaking softly to the young woman on the other side. To the right, the ArtReal receptionist watered a potted plant from a coffee pot, a small communication device nestled over her right ear. She noticed him and offered a quick smile and a finger of caution. "Just a sec, honey," she said.

_ How informal_, he thought.

She was having difficulty with her footwear and nearly stumbled into her chair. "How can I help you?"

Clearing his throat, the man said gently, "I am here in reference to Quasar 169, Amanda."

The woman's eyes grew large and her smile broader, though blatantly forced. "I'm sorry, is there a problem you need to discuss? Has something happened? Something big been destroyed?"

She behaved as though she'd encountered queries of the sort before, and they generally didn't have positive outcomes. He was relieved she even knew to what he was referring. "I have no complaint," he assured her in his calm, buttery tones. "Would it be possible for me to speak with her?"

The woman registered confusion behind her faltering mask of professional courtesy. "You're not…a relative of hers, are you?"

"No," he answered, suspecting she planned to detain him there in the lobby unless he convinced her his visit was pertinent. He reached into his suit and withdrew the badge, flipping it open and offering it to her for inspection. "This is a business call."

She scrutinized the metal, turning it in the light, but he could tell she was thinking of something else. "O-kay…have you ever actually met this Quasar before?"

With a mild smile, he tilted his head and held his right hand out to his side, palm down. "This tall? Black hair to her waist. Very light blue eyes."

Now she stared at him blankly, her jaw a little slack. "I-I'm sorry…Special Agent Pendergast. Let me see who's available."

He noticed she'd indicated someone other than Amanda and inwardly frowned as he accepted his wallet back.

Touching her earpiece, she dialed a number on a pad before her, waited, and then spoke. "Dr. Halbot? I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a Special Agent Pendergast from the Federal Bureau of Investigations here to ask someone about one of the Quasars. One sixty-nine. Uh-huh, I dialed him, but got routed to you. Could you find him for me, please?" She smiled at Agent Pendergast. "Just a minute."

Halbot sounded more English than German, but he wasn't certain it mattered. Turning casually, he saw that the man standing at the next counter was openly observing him. He let his focus rest on the stranger without showing any emotion. The greasy-looking fellow nodded slowly, smiling, and looked the pale man up and down appreciatively.

"Dr. Sanders? I'm sorry to be a pest, but there's a man here from the FBI who wants to talk to you. He's alone. Says it's business. Quasar one sixty-nine? All right. I will. Thank you." She disconnected and nervously fluffed her short hair. "They're getting an escort for you."

He wondered if he should bother telling her that he was armed, then decided to see if it was necessary to mention it at all. She was an attractive, older woman who clearly watched her diet and exercised regularly. Her hair was colored, her nails lacquered, and her attire conservative sporty.

"You ain't from here," he heard from behind his back.

He turned toward the other male. "I'm out of the New Orleans branch."

"Huh," the guy said, smiling, chewing gum while grinning. Again he stared appreciatively at the agent, bouncing his head to the side as though listening to catchy music. "You got a bug problem down there?"

Pendergast was trying to fathom the meaning of this query when a uniformed man exited from a doorway behind the StarNet receptionist's desk and approached him. "Special Agent Pendergast? Come with me, please."

He kept up with the taller man, a blond with long legs and a Scandinavian appearance dressed in a crisp black uniform sporting a patch that looked like a depiction of the planet, an American flag, and the StarNet logo. The man said nothing further, and Pendergast refrained from questioning him. The hallways they traversed were empty, lacking art or signage indicating what lay behind each door they passed aside from the restrooms. They turned down a long corridor with tile flooring and plain, bisque colored walls. The uniformed man walked briskly, but wore heels that made only soft sounds on the hard floor. Pendergast altered his gate to make softer footsteps, recalling that this was allegedly a dream research facility and there might actually be people trying to sleep within it. They reached a short hall lined with handsome wooden doors on one side that Pendergast guessed were offices. The man halted before one and knocked gently.

Eventually, a male voice called, "Come in."

The man opened the door and gestured for the agent to precede him. Once Pendergast was inside, he closed the door over quietly and departed.

Behind a simply designed, handsome cherry desk sat a small man of mixed ethnicity. He did not rise to introduce himself, busy as he appeared to be with a slim computer. He wore small, wire-framed glasses and held the eraser end of a pencil against his lower lip. As though he'd forgotten that he had a visitor, he blinked up with mild surprise, and then gestured for Pendergast to sit. Unused to such treatment, the agent took his time sidling before one of the two chairs in front of the desk and lowering himself into it. He remained silent, taking in the details of the room while the small man worked. This was someone important, or at least someone who fancied himself so. It was possible he was merely overcompensating for what he lacked in physical intimidation. Pendergast guessed his height to be well under five feet.

Removing the eyewear and placing it in a pocket of his white lab coat, the small man finally addressed his visitor. "Well," he intoned gently, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on the felt blotter before him, "how may we be of service to you today?"

"Special Agent Pendergast, New Orleans branch," Pendergast said, flashing his badge briefly. "I am here to speak with Amanda."

"Amanda," the man repeated indulgently.

"Quasar one six nine."

"You wish to speak with her?"

"It is a matter of utmost importance."

"Really?" The small man, whose nameplate identified him as Dr. Sanders, swiveled his chair to the side and leaned back in it as though he could clearly see the view beyond the closed blinds that covered the office's sole window. "In regards to?"

"Is she unavailable?"

Sanders eventually brought the chair back around and rested his hands on the blotter again. "I'm guessing there's been an incident?"

"There has occurred an incident," Pendergast conceded, "that she may be able to assist me with."

Merriment lit the doctor's features. "Really? How intriguing. And I suppose it deals with aliens?"

The pale man's brow furrowed. "It has nothing to do with illegal immigrants," he said.

"_Illegal immigrants_. Is that what you guys are calling them? Hmm."

"Is she available?"

"Why her specifically?"

"I have dealt with her before," the FBI agent told him.

"In what respect?"

"She assisted me with an attempted kidnapping case some months previous."

The doctor finally appeared to be taking him seriously. "Did she? I was unaware of that."

"It was not broadcast to the media in any official capacity."

"You're very evasive," Sanders accused.

"No more than yourself, Doctor."

"Can you give me details-"

"I'm afraid not," Pendergast interrupted smoothly. "The investigation is not yet closed."

"I see. Official FBI business?"

The pale man displayed his palms.

"I really wish I had known something like that had occurred…we strongly dislike getting tangled with outside agencies. I would like to comply, but-"

"I'm afraid that you must."

Sanders let an eyebrow rise. "Does it…somehow involve, say…national security?"

Pendergast folded his hands upon his lap. "I wish I could provide you with more details, but at this time everything remains classified."

"Why wasn't this done through official channels?"

"Circumstances have forced me to come to you on my own. I am in dire need of Amanda's assistance as soon as humanly possible."

The man's brown eyes narrowed. He pinched the flesh at the top of his nose, and then reapplied his spectacles. "I'm afraid, that given the circumstances, extraordinary as they might be, I simply cannot loan any of our property out on the word of a rogue agent."

Pendergast didn't care for the adjective. It suggested he was operating outside of normal parameters, which of course he was. "Is she here in this building at this time?" he asked abruptly, sitting straighter in the chair.

Sanders cocked his jaw, and then answered, "She is not."

"Have you any other Quasars that might assist me at this time?"

"This isn't like a library."

"The library is far more helpful."

"You're a cocky one, aren't you?" Sanders stared at the strange fellow, his nearly morbid attire, his cadaverous appearance. "How long have you been with the Bureau?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because every one of you should know how our facility operates. I can offer you backup from StarNet if you suspect aliens are involved, but we do not loan out Quasars to just anyone who comes asking."

Pendergast inhaled sharply. "Then how does one usually acquire a Quasar from your facility?"

"Through their partners. Now, if you'll-"

"Then I will need to speak with Alex," he interrupted.

"Yes, but Alex answers to me."

"Please summon him. I will need to see him immediately."

Sanders asked, "Would you care for some refreshment? You seem a little tired."

The pale man mentioned, "A glass of water would be nice."

Sanders glanced at his watch. "What about dinner?"

"My time is limited," Pendergast assured him.

"Officer Roglitz is not present at this time. It will take a few minutes to contact him and get him in here."

"I will wait."

"Of course," Sanders said, easing down from his chair and walking around the desk with a smile. "We have a cafeteria downstairs. I can have him meet you there."

The word _cafeteria_ was as unappealing to Pendergast as _fast-food joint_. He sighed with displeasure. "Do they have tea?"

"They have all kinds of things. Let me find you an escort while I attempt to contact Alexander."

"I cannot be kept waiting," Pendergast insisted.

"I'll be sure and let him know," the other man said.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

He had felt better, stronger, and clearer of mind since entering the building. Perhaps it was the anticipation, and perhaps his physical form was growing stronger in real life. The uniformed man who'd escorted him to Sanders' office had shown him the way to the sizeable downstairs cafeteria, and he'd been intrigued by a menu board suggesting teriyaki glazed grilled salmon, Wagyu steak salad, and orange-glazed pheasant with sides. Skeptical, but feeling peaked, he'd requested the salmon with snow peas and water chestnuts, jasmine rice with spring vegetables and diced cashews, and water. He was asked to select from several bottled varieties and chose an artesian spring water. When he stood looking for a cashier, he was informed the meal was free. To his great shock the food proved to be fresh, high quality, and prepared by skilled chefs. He chose a seat that allowed him to view both entrances, then sat and savored every heavenly bite.

After he had finished clearing his plates, he dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin and asked aloud, "Alexander?"

The man who had entered and chosen a seat at a nearby table so he could enjoy a pastry and hot tea answered, "And if I am?"

"Then we have business, but…I doubt that you are he."

"Psychic?" the tall, lean, athletically built man queried, moving smoothly from his chair to an empty one at Pendergast's table.

"I know only that you are en employee of this establishment, and my guess is that you work for ArtReal and not StarNet despite your attempts to fraternize with their receptionist."

"I work for both," the guy said, taking a large bite of his fruit-filled croissant and chasing it with sweetened hot tea. "You need Alex? Maybe I can help you."

Pendergast sipped his water, using the napkin to remove condensation from the bottle's

sides. "I am in need of the services of his Quasar partner."

"Ohhhh, man. Me, too," the guy said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs. "But are you sure you actually need a Quasar? Maybe all you need is someone like me."

"I find the notion doubtful."

"Oooh, Mr. College-educated big-words guy!" The man looked around quickly, and then leaned forward so he could be heard clearly. "Look, Buddy, I got connections. I can get you nearly anything you want. Tell me what you need. Let me be the guy you're looking for."

Pendergast stood and carried his tray toward a table where they were stacked alongside an array of condiments and extra napkins. He released the tray when the other man stepped around him and took it from his hands.

"Let me get that for ya."

Disturbed, he realized he was unfamiliar with the layout of the place, and so chose to stand his ground rather than disappear. "I have no interest in you nor what you offer," he said clearly as the guy sorted his plates and cutlery.

"Only because you have no idea what you're missin'," came the response.

"I'm missing valuable time," he answered, "and very soon I'll have lost my desire to cooperate in a peaceable fashion."

The dark-haired man smiled, his eyes narrow. "I like you."

"You are oblivious to my attempts to rid myself of your revolting persona."

"Hell, no. I'm just used to being treated this way. Look," he tried, closing the distance between them and reaching an arm around the stranger so he could escort him where he wished.

The pale man with the nearly white hair and almost colorless eyes seized the other fellow's wrist at two precise pressure points, spun out of his airspace, then managed to twist his arm and put him on the floor on his knees in one fluid movement. There was silence in the cafeteria that quickly broke into applause, whistles, and laughter. Said Pendergast through clenched teeth, "No means _no_. Not _ever_."

"Yeah, okay, I got it. You're the pitcher, you want me to be the catcher."

The FBI agent flung the man's arm toward him in disgust and walked without hurry toward one of the exits, deciding to see how much of the facility he could tour on his own before anyone questioned him.

There was a holding area designated Medium Security, a few small offices, a marked medical emergency room, a couple of laboratories, a surprisingly large gymnasium and an indoor shooting range. Pendergast was still attempting to determine what the role of aliens or illegal immigrants played in this scenario. Did Amanda come from a place where borders were sealed and breaching them resulted in harsh penalties?

But how did dream research fit into everything? What were the laboratories for? Why would it require someone of her unique talents and abilities to help maintain the safety of the citizenry? Clearly StarNet was some form of security or para-policing agency. The few uniformed employees he saw were all armed with handguns, though he never saw handcuff cases on anyone's belts, pepper spray holsters, nor Tasers. The people in lab coats clearly worked for ArtReal, which he'd noticed on the logo over the receptionist's desk was short for _Artificial Realities_. Certainly he was ensconced within an artificial reality himself at the moment, but what, exactly did the people do or create to ease problems with immigrants?

The corridors again lacked art, motivational posters, or any attempts at personalization. Dr. Sanders had indicated that the FBI should be well aware of how the establishment operated without insinuating that they cooperated with one another. Was this a government facility or a private contractor? He suspected the latter, ducking into a restroom when he realized he had run out of places to explore without actually entering any of the unmarked doors.

His energy had been slowly flagging. Pendergast took his time in the single-occupant room, splashing his face with cold water, then standing in the center of the tiled floor to perform a quick meditative self-check. All he learned about himself was that it was relaxing to clear his mind and give in to nothingness. He could not tell where his physical body might lie or even what condition it might be in.

Emerging from the room, he thought he detected furtive movement near the shooting range. The aggressively friendly fellow had been trailing him throughout the basement level and doing a good job of it, though unaware he was stalking a master of evasion. Pendergast had been using the fellow's reactions to his wandering to gauge whether any place he'd explored had been taboo. Thus far the place seemed entirely too easy to access for a stranger with a concealed weapon.

Growing uneasy with the situation, he decided to return to the upper level where perhaps he could find a private place to sit and maybe gain a better understanding of his physical state. The stairway was tempting since he had already used the elevator, but he chose the lift instead, maneuvering around a cleaning crew who had sectioned off part of the corridor for mopping. Considering the down arrow before depressing the button marked with an up arrow, Pendergast pretended to see something clinging to his pant leg that he bent and brushed at while noting the whereabouts of the obnoxiously persistent man. If the stranger failed to join him in the elevator, then perhaps he could actually manage to elude him upstairs. The elevator chimed and the doors parted, revealing a large man wearing khaki denim, a dark olive Henley shirt, an unzipped brown leather jacket, and a wry smile. "Agent Pendergast?"

The pale man blinked as he straightened, noting no friendly offer of a hand. "I am. And your name?"

"Alex Roglitz."

"You are Amanda's…partner?"

"Yeah. What's up?"

"Shall we ascend or is there a place where we might discuss things in private down here?"

"This is good," the newcomer said, pushing the closing doors wider as he exited. He walked briskly upon his long legs, expecting the other man to follow. They moved past the cafeteria to an odd place that the agent had noticed earlier where four small cube-like rooms or closets occupied a space without adjoining one another. The brown-haired man lingered very briefly beside two of them before knocking loudly on the door of the third. After a moment he beat against the door with his fists. When no response came, he stepped back and landed a fierce dragon-stamp kick to the center of the door near the hinged side. A seam appeared in the wood and a flurry of sawdust trickled from the damaged hinges. Finally the knob turned and Alex threw the door wide with his shoulder, forcing his way inside quickly to apprehend a smaller man who cowered and stammered. "Get your crap packed up and get the hell outta here!"

"Hey!" the dark-haired man in the light blue shirt and striped tie blurted, regaining his senses once he recognized the intruder. "My name's on the list! I got this room for another ten minutes!"

"You're name's on the list," the larger man growled, seizing the guy beneath an armpit and dragging him to the door. He forcibly threw him into the hall, the smaller man's shoes squeaking as he sought to retain his balance. "Good. Then we'll know who to drug-test immediately!"

"What? Hey—screw you, man! I was on the phone with my girl! She's havin' a baby!" Patting himself down, he realized his cell phone was on the floor near Roglitz' left foot.

Alex smiled and bent to pick the device up. He brought his arm back as if to throw it, then said, "Nah. It's evidence now, a-hole. Is this girlfriend your drug dealer, too?"

The smaller man's face contorted and he jammed his fists down by his sides as he stalked off, muttering curses.

Roglitz glanced at the phone, held it to his ear. "'lo? Hello? Anybody still listenin'?" He laughed suddenly and looked at the screen again. "Not no more." He pocketed the phone and gestured grandly for the FBI agent to enter. "Entrez, s'il vous plait. Grab a chair."

Pendergast, intrigued by the incident, and having learned some interesting things about Alexander in the process, stepped within the close room and looked at the small desk bracketed by two chairs.

Alex moved past him to close the door, giving it an extra shove to fit it snugly within the doorframe. He stepped back for a look at it, then turned and grabbed the nearest chair, using the back to brace against the knob. "Please," he said, gesturing to the remaining chair.

The FBI agent stepped around the desk and seated himself. The man called Alex drew the desk farther from him and used it for his own chair, looking down at Pendergast.

"You're lookin' for me. Wha'd I do?"

"In actuality, I need to speak with Amanda."

The larger man looked thoughtful. "How do you know her?" They heard music and Alex jammed a hand into his pocket to withdraw the phone. He began mashing buttons and pressing against the screen to no avail. "You know how to turn these things off?"

Pendergast extended a hand, examining the object once he had it. It appeared very much like any standard, high-end phone, and was even a brand he had heard of, but looked more advanced than anything he was familiar with. He did find a button marked _end_ and pressed it until the device shut down. Then he handed it back so Roglitz could repocket it. "Amanda…_visited _me not quite a year ago."

Alex's dark blue eyes closed. "Sorry. What the hell did she do?"

"May I ask…what she is?"

Smiling uncomfortably, Alex said, "In a nutshell…she's a dream walking."

"Is she or was she ever human?"

"Oh, yeah, she's human all right. She came in here one day, volunteered for the Quasar Program, and just happened to be the first physical one we ever made. You're probably familiar with the older models? The ones that looked more like ghosts? Lasted maybe a week or so? No…not at all. Your accent says New Orleans. You've never heard of them before?"

Said Pendergast, "I'm afraid all I know of her stems from our sole encounter."

"Okay…and she…she did what, exactly? I mean, why are you here? What do you think you need her for?"

"I hope she can help me," the pale man said, looking vaguely troubled. "I do not know that she can, but I have exhausted every resource at my disposal."

"You…you're sick?"

That was unexpected. Pendergast said quietly, "I am afraid I might be dying."

Roglitz studied him; saw the difficulty he was having with his explanation. "You're not just being evasive…you're really not sure why you're here, or even…what exactly is goin' on with you."

"What I'm about to tell you…may be very difficult to believe.…"

"You came to the right guy then," Alex sighed. "Go on."

"I, as you know, am a Federal Agent. A Special Agent dealing with serial killers of…the most disturbing nature. I know I was in the process of tracking one through the foothills of Colorado when…something occurred. I…wish I could tell you exactly what happened, but my memory falters. I may have succumbed to a trap or perhaps a mere unfortunate incident that rendered me…incapacitated…for how long I am unsure." He looked into the other man's eyes for his reaction.

Alex sat cross-legged with a fist beneath his jaw, his focus elsewhere. "Okay," he finally said, licking his lips. "What I don't get, then…is who or _what_ the hell _you_ are."

"I am-"

He uncrossed his legs and waved a hand at Pendergast. "No, no, I get all that. I got your name, what you do, what have you. But, what I'm not getting is…if you think you're lying dead or dying somewhere in Colorado, then what the hell am I talkin' to right now? How did you get here?"

Pendergast was astonished. He'd thought the explanation would have dragged on and on. "Yes, well, many years ago I took a year to study meditation techniques with a group of Tibetan monks in-"

Alex hopped from the table and bent over the seated man, looking at his jacket, and finally extending a finger to poke him deeply in the side of his neck. The agent shirked away irritably. "You're solid and warm. You smell like cologne. You're real, but you're tellin' me that you're not really here."

"Of course I am here," he admitted, "but simultaneously, I am also somewhere else."

Alex's head cocked as he backed himself onto the desktop. "Like a Quasar."

"Really? Is Amanda somehow disincorporated from her physical housing?"

"No. That's what I was sayin'…the old ones were. She's real, though. Somehow her body merged with her mind when they were tryin' to separate them. They think it has something to do with the introduction of nightmares. Her mind tried to wake up and it _did_."

"Amanda…is…" the man faltered, having difficulty finding the correct words.

"Amanda is a lab-created living dream. This place liberates people's dream-selves from their bodies so they exist in the real world, they can interact with us. Normally they're short-lived and…well they used to be like phantoms or somethin'. She's real. Real as you or…or…." He trailed off, looking confused. "How did you do that? I mean, you're somethin' just like her only you're still, like, coherent and stuff."

"Her inability to succinctly express herself is a result of her transformation?"

"Yeah." Alex shrugged. "Sure. I dunno. Maybe she was a little messed up before…no. She got herself here and was okayed for the procedure…she musta been all right…But you. You managed to do this yourself? What are you?"

Pendergast replied calmly, "As I was saying-"

"Yeah, yeah, Tibetan monks and crap. But how are you real? Why aren't you like a phantasm? A vision? A hallucination or some crazy psychic dream I'm havin'?"

"What makes you think this is not?"

"Hell," he said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, "I dunno. Half the time it's hard to tell what's real and what ain't around here. Sure. Okay. Let's pretend this isn't real. What do you need me for? Or her? Amanda?"

"When she visited me before, she demonstrated a remarkable healing ability."

Roglitz nodded. "You want her to fix you. Okay. So where the hell are you then? Colorado? We go there, find your body, fix it, and you're back on track, right?"

"It seems too easy."

"Easier than you think," the larger man said.

"Perhaps not."

"'splain," said Alex, wincing.

"I am uncertain, and in fact am quite doubtful, that your reality and mine are one and the same."

"Okay. Huh?"

"When Amanda came to me before, she kept trying to tell me that what she was experiencing didn't seem right to her. Where she indicated that ArtReal was, does not exist where I am from."

"And you're from…?"

"I am from…the same place that you are from, apparently, except some of your reality does not overlap with my own."

"Are you talkin' about…maybe other _dimensions_ or somethin'?"

"I wish I could be more explicit, but for all intents and purposes, other dimensions may in fact be the case."

"Your reality and my reality…are not the same? But, you're human? From Earth? Red blood? One heart, one brain, ten toes?"

"I noticed," Pendergast continued, "that on my way here the skyline has slight variations. There are vehicles in your parking lot that I have never seen before. In my reality, ArtReal does not exist, and I suspect neither do you or Amanda."

"We aren't well known-"

"You are not known at all," the agent corrected. "I have had my own private sources go out of their way to detect any mention of any of this on the Internet, and I assure you that in my world ArtReal does not exist."

The big man worked his jaw as he considered. "She got away from me a few months back and I thought she might have gone back in time or somethin'-"

"She can travel through time?"

"No one knows all the things she can do. She was never extensively tested. But, I found her in this creepy-lookin' Victorian mansion with these three people…A-Aloysius?"

Pendergast brightened. "How did you happen to enter my reality?"

"I-I have no idea. It musta been her. I mean, she can jump from here to there quick as you can turn around, and pull people and objects outta nowhere…but you weren't there. I never saw you."

"I awakened to the sound of a disturbance in the sitting room. When I entered the room she had mysteriously vanished and my companions tried to explain to me how I had been seated amidst them one moment, and a stranger had been seated there the next. That is how I happen to know your name," he said. "My ward had deduced that the name Amanda had come up with for me was an anagram for Alex, and suddenly there you were."

"Your…your ward?"

"There is a young woman who resides at one of my residences, who…shall we say comes from a rather complicated background."

"You, too, heh? So…someone reminded her of me and she pulled me into your world. You said you were sitting in a chair and then you were asleep upstairs?"

"Yes. I suppose…that Amanda must have somehow displaced me, so that she could manifest you in my stead?"

"Good a guess as any." Alex rubbed his chin. "Yeah…there should be some kinda mention of us on the Internet. We're obscure, but we're definitely here."

"Here," Pendergast agreed, spreading his hands apart, "but not in my here."

"But she was. I was, too. So that means we can be there again. This is too easy."

"Is it?"

"You have no idea. Um," he said, easing off the desk and standing on the other side of it, "I have no idea just how much you know she's capable of, all the stuff she can do."

"Not nearly enough."

"Yeah…I've been with her like twelve years now, and I'm still learnin' new things about her."

"Is she…only twelve?"

"She's a twelve year old Quasar, but…we think she was like eighteen when she joined, so that makes her what…."

"Thirty. When I saw her last, she appeared only fourteen or fifteen years old. Do they begin as infants again?"

Alex shook his head. "They appear the way they do in their dreams. I mean, I tend to look about thirty-somethin' in my dreams. Is this…is this how you normally appear?"

Pendergast replied, "As far as I am able to tell."

"Mm," grunted the other man, his eyebrows lifting for a moment. "Okay, well, prepare to be amazed." Looking around to be sure he had enough space, Roglitz seemed to brace himself for a moment, looked at the wall over Pendergast's head, then said, "Amanda? I need you. Now." The girl peeked from behind his back and smiled as she stepped around him. Pendergast felt relief until she walked through the desk to stand before him.

"Axel."

"Axel?" repeated Alex.

"It, it comes from my initials," the agent explained, reaching out to grab her arm and make certain it was real before rising to his feet to touch the desk.

"You never saw her walk through solids?"

"How…no. She's like I am when I meditate."

"When you _dream_," Alex corrected, shaking his head.

"You called her…and she suddenly appeared? From where? How was she able to hear you? Where was she?"

"Uh, close," was all the answer he got. "Okay, you remember this guy?"

Amanda nodded, beaming happily.

"Great. Take us to his place."

Pendergast kept watching her until he noticed that the background had changed and the three of them now stood in the same positions in the front entranceway of his home beside the staircase. He straightened, stepping backward. "Oh."

Roglitz looked around. "Home sweet home, huh? How big's this place? They pay you federales somethin' good, huh?"

"This…appears to be my home, but…." He stared at the steps for a moment, contemplating.

"You don't think this is real," Alex said.

The agent ran toward the stairs and took a flying leap at them, landing in a crouch about midway up with one foot higher than the other. Unconvinced, he hurried up the steps, and then peered back down at them over the banister.

"Oh, no," Roglitz murmured.

Pendergast straddled the wooden rail, then allowed himself to drop, landing in a deep squat. He remained that way briefly, attempting to assess how he felt. He straightened very slowly, testing each knee, his ankles and his feet. "That hurt."

"Yep," Roglitz agreed.

"But…did it hurt as much as it should have?"

"You want I should shoot ya?"

He gazed disparagingly at the other man. "The last time we met, I had a terrible time discerning what was a dream and what was reality."

"What finally convinced ya?"

"The fact that the dream seemed far too detailed and the way it ran on and on instead of appearing in segments. I assure you it took me far longer than it should have to be sure."

"Great," Roglitz said, looking around. "I'm under the impression you don't think you have time to play with."

"I feel…well enough at the moment, but every time my energy flags, I suspect my physical body is weakening."

"You need to be woken up."

Pendergast opened his mouth to speak, but nodded grimly instead.

"We can try to find your body."

"How could I locate my own body? I don't believe I could exist as real as I seem to you now in the presence of my actual self."

The larger man jerked a thumb toward the distracted teen.

"So then upon wakening, only one of me would remain?"

"Seems so."

"You do not seem absolutely certain of anything in particular," Pendergast noted.

Roglitz shrugged. "I'd invite ya to try a mile in my driving mocs, but I'm already battling sanity issues because of all this craziness myself." When he caught Pendergast's stare, he amended, "Not really."

"Do you think Amanda could heal me as I am? Right now?"

"I don't know jack, remember?"

"Forgive me," the pale man said graciously, approaching the other. "I am in a state of duress, uncertain of what I am doing, of what is genuinely real and what is not. In fact, it is possible that my physical form could expire at any moment, or that I might lose my hold on this…particular reality and thus lose my chance to try and repair myself. I do not mean to be ungrateful. My time may be running out, and I still have an issue to resolve."

"Serial killer," Roglitz said, nodding. "Got it."

"You know more about your…_Quasar_ than anyone else, it would seem, so I ask you, can she heal my body using this…_apparition_ of myself alone?"

The larger man stepped closer to him and answered, "I. Have. No. Idea. But, hey! Let's try it! Let's try anything! Everything! Hey, wait!" he said excitedly, catching sight of the parlor. "Books!"

"Books?"

Roglitz ran into the dim room and yanked a random title from a shelf. He returned and offered it to the FBI agent. "Here. Read to me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah, I shouldn't have mentioned the whole sanity thing. Just humor me, Casper. What is it, Shakespeare?"

Glancing at the cover, Pendergast told him, "It's a very rare early edition of Melville's _Moby- dick; or, The White Whale_."

Roglitz narrowed his eyes. "No, wait, waitaminute. Here," he said, extracting his driver's license from his wallet. Pendergast caught sight of a shiny gold and silver badge within it. "What's my license number?"

His brow furrowed with skepticism, Pendergast took the card that looked very much like any other New York license he had ever seen, flipping it over to verify that even the back matched what he was familiar with. _Our dimensions must be very close_, he mused. "R923WNXTYWNLSUSXBWU2892."

Roglitz peeped over his arm. "Nope. Try again."

"R44616444WF2T46344t682882." Pendergast squinted at the printing, certain what he had just said sounded different than what he had said the first time. "RRR3678868WG…the letters and numbers keep changing…."

Roglitz snatched the card away from him. "You can't read."

"Of course I can!" He cracked open the book he still held, but Roglitz pulled it away from him, too.

"You're too familiar with it. You've never read my driver's license before. That's why you can't read it now."

"I've lost the ability to read!"

"No. It means this isn't real. This isn't your reality. We're just lost somewhere inside your psyche." He looked accusingly at Amanda.

"But…can she heal me?"

Pointing at the other guy, Roglitz told the kid, "He's hurt. Make him okay."

"Hurt?" she asked, approaching the lean, pale fellow. "Where?"

"I'm hurt," he tried to explain to her, bending to one knee, "in my head."

"Headache?" She began to ply her fingers through his skull as easily as a child's fingers swept through mud and the entire mansion began to warp and fade as the man softly moaned.

Roglitz jerked her hands away and Pendergast sank to the floor weakly. "Wake up!" he insisted, shaking the guy. "Holy crap! Get _up_!" The slender man's eyes were partially open, his mind sinking into a prolactin bliss. "No!" groaned Roglitz, then barked at the Quasar, "Take us home!" He bent and lifted the pale man, placing him gently upon his sofa. Pendergast seemed dazed. Roglitz stood over him, uncertain how to proceed. "Dammit!"

"He's okay?"

"No, he's not okay," Alex told her. "Somehow we've got to fix him. How the hell did you meet this guy anyway? What is it with you and intelligent blonds?"

Amanda shrugged.

Things hadn't been going well for Alexander of late. A number of revelations about his past had come to light, utterly reinventing his life. He wasn't prepared to go public with his rebirth, to let anyone know what he now knew about himself. He was loath to expose himself to a stranger, unaware how it might complicate things further. "I've got to do this," he whispered, fists at his sides, watching the weak man's eyes close to slits. "Only because of _you_," he growled, turning toward the teen. "You and your freaky _friends_."

"Friends?" she queried.

"Pale Face and McKenna," he said, jerking a thumb toward their guest. "Crap."

"Geoff?" she asked softly.

"Is there some kinda connection between these two? Maybe?"

She neared the supine man and reached down to apparently stroke his chest, lifting her hand with a medallion in it. "Phoenix," she said.

"Phoenix?" Alex bent to examine the disc of metal attached by a fine, but strong chain to the man's neck. "Yeah. There's some kinda bird on it. So what?"

"Like Geoff," she said, shrugging and smiling at him.

"Geoff's a veterinarian. You found him in Montana. This is an FBI Agent you discovered…in New York?" He thought for a moment. "Geoff's from New York…but this guy's from Louisiana. I don't get it," he said, dropping the talisman. He watched the man's slow movements. "You still in there? Here? You still with us, uh, Aloysius?" The old fashioned name felt strange to speak aloud. "Pendergast…Aloysius Pendergast. A.P. How do you get an anagram for Alex outta A.P.?" He shook his head. "Okay. Go make sure the doors are locked. We're about to get really freaky."

Roglitz stooped to cradle the man again and carried him up the stairs to his bedroom. Halfway there the agent scrabbled weakly at Alex's sleeve and tried to gaze into his eyes. His breathing was uneven and he blinked too much, but the look in his light grey eyes was unmistakable.

"She didn't tell you about me," he said softly to the fading man in his arms, "but I'm not quite like anything you've ever seen before, either." He nudged the door open and lowered Pendergast to his mattress, arranging him in what he hoped was a comfortable position. "I'm psychic. _Very_ psychic…among other things," he explained, doffing his jacket and dropping it into a chair. He removed his belt, untucked his shirt, and rolled his sleeves down. "I know you can hear me, and I can respond to your thoughts. So here's what I'm gonna do." He climbed up onto the other side of the bed. "I'm going to invade your mind." He reacted to a sharp twinge of opposition. "Hey, sorry, Bud, but you're learnin' my secrets right now, so we'll both have somethin' on each other if we ever need to use it." Pendergast was resisting to the point that he was able to shift his position on the bed. "I have no interest in your memories," Alex assured him, lying on his side as he spoke. "All I wanna do is see if I can get inside your head, open your eyes, and see what's going on with you."

"Open…my eyes?" the agent croaked hoarsely. _You can do that? Operate my body in my stead?_

"Yeah," Alex said, rolling onto his back and making himself comfortable. "Among other things." He said to Amanda, "No one is to get inside this house, got it?" Casting his eyes toward Pendergast, he added, "And no one's gettin' out 'til I say so, okay?"

"'kay," she said from where she stood at the foot of the bed, watching them.

The pale man's heart was racing, his mind full of fear. Who were these two? What were they doing to him? What would this guy learn once he had gotten into his head? He tried to push himself into a sitting position.

"Don't make me tie you down," Alex grunted, his eyes closed.

Pendergast pushed himself upward, his head swimming as he sat.

"Amanda? Keep him still," Alex ordered.

The girl referred to as a Quasar smiled and neared the restless man.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

The first thing he was aware of was a headache. A headache stronger than a hangover. He'd never suffered migraines, but had no idea if Pendergast did or not. The very last thing he wanted to do was open his eyes. Calming himself, slowing his breathing until he was certain his heart had slowed as well, he attempted to take inventory of his condition. Was the man a quadriplegic? It felt like very little moved, if anything at all. Breathing wasn't easy. It was cold, wherever he was and he desired only to sleep. His heart felt strange, as though it wasn't steady. Hey lay still for a very long time, allowing his breathing to return to normal and willing his heart to calm. There was a distant sound like thunder or maybe trains coupling and uncoupling or maybe even heavy construction taking place. It was an itch that made his eyes open. His right nostril felt itchy in the seam where it protruded from his face. The world was bizarrely broken into shadow, darker shadow, and a few strange slashes of light. As he stared, his eyes dry and aching, he could make out motes of dust dancing in the short beams. The air was somewhat difficult to breathe, but faint gusts reached him now and then, fresh, but dry and choking, making the dust spin and whirl like crazy. Eventually he felt like he didn't have to fight sleep any longer, but lacked motivation to do more. He grew aware of intense discomfort. Sharp pain. Pressure. He felt stiff as though even if he could move, it would be with great effort and difficulty. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes and focused on the throbbing, willing precious blood to ease his pain until he noticed warmth pooling down the side of his head, making his jaw sticky. What the hell had happened to this guy? The rays of light were fading, and the noise grew more distinct. Clearly it was thunder. And it was also clear to him now that he was buried beneath a layer of heavy rocks.

He hummed a morose note of misery, ending it with a coughing fit that wheezed, expending his lungs, causing him to sputter and drool saliva flavored with blood. _This guy was caught in an avalanche or a rock slide_, he thought. _Christ. _How many tons of rock might conceivably cover him? The faint glow of darkening daylight told him there were gaps that led back to the surface, but that might only mean he was near an edge of the rock pile, with the bulk of it slowly crushing him.

Well, there was no one to see what might happen next. With a tremendous will of effort he began to soften his extremities and withdraw them toward the trunk of his body. In the meantime, he began to force the flesh of his back to thicken and harden into something strongly resembling an albino turtle's shell.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

When Alex fell silent, his body utterly lax, Pendergast began to feel himself strengthening considerably. He held his hands before his face and turned them as if he might witness color coming into them, or see them grow bigger. He somehow felt larger, powerful, intimidating. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat bent over his thighs, trying to calm his breathing, extending a hand with which to hold the Quasar at bay. "It's okay…okay," he told her softly, clearing his throat. His body wanted to breathe, and he couldn't help but take great, deep breaths of air while he felt his mind clearing and his life force coming back strong.

Finally he threw his head back and laughed out loud, great, happy guffaws erupting from him in a way he could not recall ever having laughed before. He turned toward the strange man who lay asleep so still that he appeared dead. He grinned, calming himself while he watched the very slow, almost nonexistent rise and fall of Roglitz's abdomen. The man's eyes were motionless behind his eyelids, his jaw slack, a very faint pulse barely visible in the hollow of his neck beneath his Adam's apple. But the pulse was steady as clockwork.

Pendergast blinked, astonished at how colors seemed brighter and more distinct, noting the essences of cologne, clean laundry, soap, and another man's smell in the air. He smiled unevenly at the Quasar. She was seated upon a white chair, atop Roglitz's jacket and discarded belt, watching him emotionlessly. Finally, he asked her, "Is he all right?"

Amanda's gaze moved toward her partner's prone form. She nodded very slowly.

The agent rose from the bed as quietly as possible, moving around it to study the sleeping figure. Alex was tall, with a broad face and strong cheekbones that bespoke Slavic decent. He thought the last name sounded German, possibly Polish. The man's hair was thick and almost more of a honey color than a true brown. His nose had been broken at some point in time, and he wondered why he hadn't had Amanda fix it. The shoulders were wide, the chest thick like that of a weightlifter or pro football player. He saw hair peeking forth from the slightly unbuttoned shirt and around the edges of the sleeves. _A big, hairy brute_, he thought, recalling that the man had claimed to be very psychic. _It's unlikely that no one else has ever thought these things_, he surmised. "Alexander?" he asked, leaning close. "Alex, can you hear me?" The body lay still, seemingly barely alive. It occurred to him that had the man succeeded somehow in taking over his body, that it was now he who was trapped in a coma or possibly near death. And what would happen if his body expired with someone else's consciousness in it? He turned toward Amanda, finding her standing right beside him as if she'd found his proximity to the other man threatening. If there was something he needed to do to ensure the well being of Roglitz, he had no idea what it was. All he'd been instructed to do was to lie still, and clearly his mobility was not upsetting anything.

Pendergast straightened and gazed about the room. It was a good-sized master bedroom featuring windows on two sides. There was a full-sized window behind the chair and a much smaller one opposite it within a little nook. He moved slowly so as not to alarm the Quasar, peeling the vinyl window shade aside so he could assess the view. He recognized some of the structures immediately and was very surprised to realize that wherever he was at the moment was not far at all from his Beaux-Arts mansion. Even more shocking was the view when he glanced downward: Roglitz had a fenced-in backyard of the sort found in some of the nicer planned communities...unless his home merely abutted a park of some kind. There were amply sized two-story houses nearby, each with their own good-sized plots of mown land. In the distance and toward the right he could make out what appeared to be the Hudson River.

_This community does not exist_, he thought. There were no places laid out in this manner anywhere in Manhattan. The sun was making its way west, painting the buildings in myriad hues like the buttes and mesas of the southwest. Feeling strangely helpless, he turned, and Amanda was too close to him again. "This is where you live," he said.

She nodded slowly.

"This is where I live, too…but it is also not where I live at all."

"I know."

He gazed at her fondly. "I greatly enjoyed our previous interaction."

She moved away, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside Alex's feet.

Would she prevent him from exploring the premises? He was deeply intrigued by this peculiar new world.

Roglitz's walls were bare, painted white to match the carpet, the ceiling, and even his bedding. He didn't know if everything was spotless because the man was a scrupulous housekeeper, had hired such a person, or if Amanda somehow kept everything pristine the way she had restored everything that had been damaged when she had visited Pendergast in his own reality. Stepping around a television atop a rolling table, he moved toward the long dresser that faced the bed. The large mirror hung behind it showed the unconscious man deep in slumber.

"Is Alexander a sort of policeman?" he asked casually, picking up a cologne bottle and finding the fragrance strong, but clean.

"Somethin'" Amanda agreed.

"And he deals with…aliens?" he asked, using the word everyone else seemed to favor.

"Yes."

"And that's what you do as well?" There was a boar's bristle brush beside a small wooden valet that held two pennies, a single key, and a plain gold ring. He scrutinized the pennies for detail and accuracy, was tempted to steal a few hairs from the brush for analysis of the man, before recalling that they would not make the journey back to his own body.

"Uh-huh."

"What kind of people do you deal with, exactly? Are they criminals? Aside from entering the country illegally."

"People? Like Haines? Like John?"

"Are they aliens?"

"They're not aliens," she told him, failing to react to his blatant invasion of Alex's privacy.

Pendergast did not take hold of the gun on the far side of the dresser, but recognized it and appreciated it for what it was. "The aliens that Alex sometimes shoots at," he clarified, bending for a better look at the shoulder holster rig. "Are they criminals? Bad guys?"

"Bad guys," she confirmed.

"Have you ever heard of the U.S. Border Patrol or Homeland Security?" He eased open the top drawer on the far left side and rummaged casually through the contents.

"Dunno. Maybe."

Then why was StarNet necessary? What was different about this reality that made it necessary for an organization like ArtReal to exist? Socks. Paired and balled, which he despised for it eventually weakened the elasticity of the fabric that went over the calves. They were quality socks, however, designed for heavy-duty use and moisture wicking. "Where do the aliens come from? What country do they originate from?" Maybe they were Canadians here, sneaking into the country to sell maple syrup to the sugar-addicted. He found stashed toward the back of the drawer a collection of foreign currency and withdrew it to learn what countries existed here and how close their monies were to what he was familiar with.

"Country?" she asked. "Portugal?"

"Portugal? Really?" The banknotes and coins looked exactly like ones he had seen and even used before himself.

"Not sure."

"Yes," he said absently, noting mostly Canadian currency within the stash. "Do you ever visit Canada?"

He could see her in the mirror. "Canada. Yes. Been to Canada."

"For pleasure or for business?"

"Aliens," she said.

He found three pocketknives, two of them still in the boxes they'd been packaged in. They were of a pleasing quality, though by no means extraordinary, and probably only moderately expensive. Alexander also possessed a small collection of pocket squares, a few sets of nice but understated cufflinks, sock garters, two dyed bandannas, a small sewing kit, and a compass in a handsome brass casing. "He was married at one time?"

"Think so."

"You never met his wife?"

"Rachel?"

"You did meet his wife?"

"She died."

"So he is a widower."

"Not married when she died."

"They had divorced?"

She nodded behind him, and in the mirror he watched her look grow sad and vacant.

"Was she killed…by an alien?"

"No. Something wrong. She had babies. Something happened."

"She died in childbirth?"

"Not sure."

Pendergast moved on to the next drawer. "Does Alexander have a companion now? Someone to replace Rachel?"

"Me."

He smiled and his head bobbed with a slight chuckle as his hands wandered through rolled T-shirts and undershirts. "Does he have any children?"

"No."

"Any other family at all?"

"Brother."

"He has a brother. Is he younger or older than Alex?" He opened a drawer full of silk boxers and quickly closed it again.

"Dead."

"I see. Anyone else?"

"Not sure…maybe."

Pendergast pulled open drawers until he was satisfied and then turned toward the closet by the door. "Do you live here also?"

"Yes."

"But you don't have visitors often?"

"Geoff and Haines and Macy and…others."

"Are any of them relatives of Alex?" The mirrored doors opened revealing cotton shirts, crisp and ironed, hung on wooden hangers, most of them white, none of them dark. Alex favored Italian-cut two-piece suits in dark solid colors, with faint pinstripes, or with slight texturing to create interest. His tastes were conservative, self-expression more evident in his accessories such as an Italian leather belt in matte black with a brushed nickel buckle, another one with a buffed texture and a simple gold buckle set with a broad square of onyx. His ties tended to be dark, sometimes with diagonal stripes, a few with subtle geometric patterns. On the floor he found Italian shoes in black leather, cordovan, and brown. They were kept in good shape, brushed clean and polished. Alex kept odor minimizing insoles in his shoes. So he was a professional. The attire he had met him in indicated he'd been undercover or perhaps it was his day off.

"No."

"No?"

"Not relatives," she clarified.

"Ah, yes. I did ask you that." He noticed the dresser beside the bed and approached it. "Do you have any relatives?"

"Not supposed to tell," she replied unhappily.

"Really?" He looked sidelong at her, and then watched for Alexander's diaphragm to rise and fall. Still alive.

"Not supposed to," she said, her words slurred a little like that of a sleepy small child.

"Does Alex know much about your past?"

"No."

Digital alarm clock. A television remote with far fewer buttons than any he had ever seen, but the name on it matched the logo on the TV. A box of tissues. A beverage coaster. Inside the drawer he discovered sinus pills, sleeping pills, and a notepad and pens. He withdrew the pad and glanced at Amanda. She reacted not all to the sight of it. "Does anyone else live here besides the two of you?"

"No."

He cracked open the pad and saw pages full of the man's swift, surprisingly elegant penmanship. It was difficult to decipher at first, but soon he recognized it was a dream journal. Some words and in some instances entire entries had been written in Cyrillic, though he was certain most of the words they spelled were in English. Flipping through it, he discovered that Alex had frequent dreams of Amanda. "You are fond of Alex?"

"Fond? I like him? Yes." She nodded vigorously and smiled.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

His pale brows rose. He took a quick peek at the sleeping figure. "And has he expressed the same sentiments to you?"

She nodded, smiling shyly.

Alex, from what he could tell, was a grown man in his early forties, and Amanda, while she may technically be thirty, resembled in far too many ways a typical fifteen year old!

Disturbed, he stood silent for some moments, trying to decide whether to confiscate the notebook for further reading later, or to replace it exactly as he'd found it and never think of it again. Finally he perched on the edge of the bed and flipped through a few more pages, reading entries at random. He discovered that the man dreamed of oddball scenarios with bizarre characters and occurrences like anyone else might, with a recurring goat theme and numerous references to liquid in some form or another. The few nightmares he discovered were all in Cyrillic, and he struggled through a few words, trying to recall what each letter represented, relying on his familiarity with the Greek alphabet to assist him.

"May I leave the room?" Opposite the closet door was another door he was certain must reveal a master bathroom, and he did not care to know whether Alexander preferred a straight razor or electric, how many different skin cleansers he used, or what brands of shampoo or toilet paper he preferred.

Amanda gestured toward the door, which opened silently.

Pendergast stood, careful not to upset the bed and the man upon it, bending for a quick peek beneath it before he departed, learning only that there was something small like a remote or cell phone beneath it toward the wall.

Beyond the door was a hallway with rooms to his left and an open view of the living room to his right. He stepped toward the railing and looked down, noting interesting architectural features that leaned toward the artsy and avant-garde, white carpeting, bare white walls, and white furniture. The bland décor unnerved him. He knew that one could learn a lot about a person by examining their personal space, and that a predominantly empty abode could signal mental illness. Though spartan, the furnishings were stylish in a subdued manner and artfully arranged. If anything, Pendergast suspected that the man might be some sort of a neat freak.

The door immediately to his left proved to be a full bath done in white, dark blue, and dark brown. It was a peculiar, but masculine color combination, and since everything matched he knew that Alex possessed an eye for aesthetic statement. The next room was a bedroom, the pieces unmatched, but looking used. It was a spare bedroom, he surmised, for occasional guests and not the rather feminine, whimsically motivated Quasar. The last bedroom proved to be storage. Across the hall was another room he was very surprised to see had been painted pale blue and featured fluffy clouds and faint rainbows connecting them. His immediate reaction was nursery, although he could not be certain, despite the lack of furnishings, that it was not Amanda's room. In his imagination, he saw her asleep on a self-manufactured cloud clutching an overstuffed plush unicorn. She had slept at his mansion, though it may have merely been that she had simply lain by his side with her eyes closed. He remembered how she had placed her hands on his hips at one moment, her very casual manner of physically touching him, how she had lain atop him after tackling him in his gym. And he knew, with certainty as he looked back at the doorway he had exited, that she most likely slept…with Alex.

Swallowing, he composed himself and descended the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

A figure, pale and child-sized, lay in water that rose halfway up his body, turning his torn and blood-soaked clothing into something resembling waving seaweed as he fought to keep his face out of the surprisingly strong current. A crescent moon turned the floor of the canyon into silver glitter as more and more floodwater poured into it. Something thrashed some yards off, and the figure assumed a crouched posture, abruptly more sure of itself as its eyes glowed faintly in the darkness. The thing was alive, but struggling, too small to fight the wash of rain that had cascaded off the mountains. The child stood on unsteady legs, the absurdly large pants pooling around his ankles and threatening to sweep his feet from under him. Thunder complained in the distance and patches of sky lit here and there with pale gold, blue or even pink. The storm was abating, but the floodwaters would continue for some time longer, seeking the fastest route down. The child-like figure hefted a rock half the size of his head from the pile he'd fought his way out from under and cocked his arm in preparation of the kill. The creature, reptilian in silhouette, long and lean with a whip-like tail, found its footing and propped its head high, its forelegs atop a submerged rock. It stared into the darkness, breathing hard. The child knew that if he launched the stone, the animal would likely bolt, launching itself farther, making its capture more difficult as the water swept it away. He did not want to waste energy altering his form further, but needed to replace what he had lost clawing his way to freedom. To his right something thrashed and he saw it was a fish! Dropping the rock, he sprang toward it, stunning it with a blow from four thick, long claws that had been fingers a moment before. Piercing the dazed animal's side, he hoisted it from the water in triumph, took a good hold of its tail, and then bit deeply through scales and meat and bone. He ate the entire fish, fins and all, swallowing the head in one frighteningly large, slow gulp. He turned toward the lizard. It had changed its position and was contemplating flight in the opposite direction, uncertain how long it might have use of submerged obstacles and shallow terrain. A dark shape blocked the sliver of moon and the reptile cocked its head to ponder the meaning of it. It was the last thing it ever saw.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

"Is white his favorite color?"

"Black," the girl responded.

He had seen the white living room set with the black television stand and the chrome and glass coffee table, learning that Alexander did not bother to complete the crossword puzzle that accompanied his channel guide. He discovered a half bath, left plain, then turned his attention to the room behind the living room. It might have been a formal dining room or a recreation room, but Alex had turned it into a library, and here there were wall shelves full of books surrounding two white chairs and a single glass-topped table similar to the one in the living room. He approached the shelves and saw that nearly every book was a hardback, many in poor condition, most of them fifty years or older with yellowing pages and threads waving free of bindings like antennae. There were classics there, a few reference titles, and even a few books written entirely in Russian. Suddenly, the Russian references made him think of snow, and he gazed upon the white room with fresh eyes, imagining himself within a quiet, peaceful, snow-filled forest. "Where is Alexander from?"

"Here," she replied, shrugging.

"He lets you get away with that," he accused. "Do you remember what I asked you before about shrugging? I would like you to answer me in a clear voice, with complete sentences please."

She groaned, "yes."

"Is he an American?"

"Guess so."

"What was that?"

"Guess."

"I couldn't hear you. Please repeat yourself."

She shrugged, twisting her mouth to the side in defiance.

"I see," he said, suppressing a grin. "Now that we are on your turf, you prefer to play by your own rules."

"I…think…he is from New York," she told him.

"Much better! I knew you could do it!"

She rolled her eyes.

"Born and raised here? His accent sounded Brooklyn to me."

Nodding, she sighed, "Yes."

"Are you guessing?"

"Yes."

He smiled. "You did not know him before you were…transformed."

"Quasared? No."

"Quasared. What is the meaning of that word? How did they come up with the word _Quasar_ to describe you?"

She looked like she was struggling to find the right words. "Because I'm…not real…but I am."

He recalled that ArtReal was a shortened version of Artificial Realities and tried to imagine what Quasar could be short for. "Quasar…Quasar…Quasi-"

She nodded abruptly, smiling, eyes wide.

He tried, "Quasi…R. Quas-ar. Quasi…Reality?"

She beamed happily, clapping her hands together.

"Artificial Realities, Quasi-Reality. Tell me, how do they prevent the public from knocking down the door? What stops the government, and I'm guessing the military also, from ordering several hundred or thousands of your kind? Assuming that they haven't already…."

"I…I don't know," she said apologetically, offering him a half shrug.

"I would think that your kind has not yet reached its full potential. Alex was surprised by my alertness and cohesion when he thought I was something like you. He spoke of you as though you were a novelty. So, it must be dangerous to have…Quasars…entities with your abilities loose…." He was gazing at the book spines again, following the walls. "As you were when you first found me. Thus, you are difficult to control…unless you happened to be in love with your partner." Pausing, he cocked his head to stare at her again. "And factoring in his claim of psychic ability…to an excessive degree…then your feelings for him would nearly have to be mirrored back as feelings for you." He had stopped before the fireplace. Turning his head he saw a glimpse of the Hudson through the sliding glass doors that opened onto a little deck just outside. He thought he could detect its odor, but it seemed too fresh, too strong. Walking to the doors, he played with the locking mechanism until he had figured out how to release it. He slid the door open only a few inches, aware that the girl was suddenly beside him, no doubt prepared to stop him should he attempt to leave.

The odor was off. What he smelled through the open door was not the same odor he had noticed near the fireplace. Sliding the door closed, he turned back toward the fireplace, paying more attention to its white painted surface, the thin, dark plank of wood that served as its mantel, two tarnished silver candelabras atop it. He heard the door lock behind him. Pendergast sniffed about the mantel, then the sides of the fireplace that looked unused. No fireplace tools lurked on the shallow stone hearth, no wood was stacked nearby. There were firedogs set up within it, and a few pieces of old, dry split oak set between them. He no longer knew for certain that he had smelled anything out of the ordinary, but then his foot crunched on something gritty. He looked down. Was it forgotten ash or a mere feature of the unevenly blackened concrete floor? Squatting, he touched what he now saw as a vaguely oval shape defined by some sort of texture, lifted his fingers and deduced it was sand. As low as he was, he could detect the scent of water much more easily, though it was accompanied by a dank smell and the scent of raw rock and disturbed earth, fresh bricks and, faintly, electronics. One hand against the upper outside edge of the fireplace opening, he leaned as far as he could beneath it, aware a stray hair had stirred, tickling his right temple. Looking right, he saw only blackness within shadow. The fireplace appeared too deep compared to its left side. He extended a hand into what he thought was a corner and it kept going. "What's in here?" he asked.

"Lab," Amanda said.

"Laboratory?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is there a light?" He tried, freezing in place when a blue glow abruptly showed him the exact entrance to the hidden lab. "Was that you?"

"Light?" asked Amanda.

"Did you turn on the lights?"

"Yes," she answered from behind him.

He thought there must be a switch near the fireplace. "Thank you."

"Okay."

He moved carefully, but knocked the split wood from the firedogs when he tried to stand and bumped his head. Moving at a crouch, he found the steps that lead up, ducked through the entranceway, and stood upright as he descended into something that looked like the interior of a spacecraft.


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

The boy had grown a few inches. He trudged through swirling waters until he found what looked like a possible path up a scree slope. He pondered the angle of it and reached to grab a handful of soil. It was well packed and solid, but broke into large, crumbly pieces. Climbable, he decided. His hands shook as the fingers hardened and lost most of their flexibility, terminating in rounded points. For the moment, he decided to leave his feet bare. A tattered man's shirt had been belted at his waist by the tie. The jacket remained damp, heavy and loose, but it was dark and helped to conceal him. Smoke-like streaks of dark cloud obscured the moon, but his eyes retained their own pale, moonlike glow, shining in his head like distant headlights. His bare foot found purchase as he leaned forward and began to ascend, punching his claw-like digits into the soil whenever he required a better grip. The going was faster than he'd assumed it would be, but still annoyingly slow. If he found more prey, he could perform more amazing feats, but at the moment all he desired was a good view of the surrounding terrain, and a glimpse of distant lights to help him figure out which way to go.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

Special Agent Pendergast moved cautiously into the subterranean chamber hewn from raw rock and implanted with some form of technology he had never seen before. Amanda had referred to it as a lab, but for what purpose he was uncertain. Touching various surfaces failed to help him identify what they'd been formed from, and a few blank spaces lit with curious sigils and hieroglyphics warmed or cooled at his touch, or produced soft melodic passages that echoed around the small cavern. There was a central island that appeared to be an examination table and banks of electronics lacking evidence of wiring, actual bulbs, or screws and bolts. In fact, the counters and banks seemed to have been formed from the surrounding matrix even if the textures and colors failed to match. Touching the bare rock face itself also yielded lights and sounds, though he could see nothing to cause them. There was a round, raised platform to one side with a sort of canopy over it that reminded him of a jar without its glass sides intact. On the other side was a tunnel he eventually made his way toward, noting that the scent of fresh water grew stronger with every step he took toward it. He thought he had walked into a spider web and backed up, pulling at what he thought were strands clinging to his face and upper body, but there was nothing there. He walked forward again with his hands outstretched, and they encountered a soft, yielding surface, slightly cool to the touch. There seemed to be an astonishingly thin, pliable, and strong membrane between himself and the tunnel, preventing his passage. Pendergast poked at it, unable to see it directly, but managing to get a few reflections back when he caused it to quiver like gelatin. He pressed his face to the invisible surface and blew against it, discovering that it was slightly gas permeable when a fine mist rose and dissipated on the other side of it. Withdrawing a small blade from a hidden pocket, he lightly touched the membrane and was startled to see clear liquid flow down the blade to his elbow. It appeared to be water. He pushed against the skin again, sensing pressure behind it. Along the walls of the tunnel, nothing indicated that it held the membrane in place or projected it somehow. _Perhaps_, he thought, _it is a force field_, and then noticed tiny shadows drifting along the floor like pinfeathers caught in a breeze. Dropping to one knee, he stared at the shapes until he saw what made them; small objects floating sans gravity on the other side. In disbelief he began to notice other things moving in the background in the shadows of the jagged walls and finally came to realize that what he stood before was an upright, soft wall of water! The sensation of surreality overcame him, and he felt weightless himself for a moment and just a touch queasy. The blade had upset the surface tension, allowing a thin stream to pour along it, and once removed, the miniscule rent he might have created instantly healed itself. Taking a few steps backward he saw that the entire surface undulated ever so slightly. A chill coursed through him. This was nothing like anything he'd ever seen or heard of in his own reality! As he stared, attempting to determine what forces could defy physics to create such a phenomenon, an indistinct feature of the background took on shape. He froze in place, heart pounding. There was some sort of massive animal filling almost the entire tunnel, lying still, but clearly breathing water as it watched him or merely slept. He guessed the tunnel to be approximately ten feet in diameter, and the animal's head filled practically half of it! It was rounded, with a snout, furry or covered with fine seaweed or algae, with extensions like steel cables traveling back from its skull into deeper shadow. Was Alex a mad scientist, and this thing his creature? It was too dark to make out distinctly, so he convinced himself that it was very likely he was merely imagining things.

The Quasar was amusing herself by touching flashing lights on a panel. Whether she was actually controlling anything or not was unknown. Pendergast felt distinctly uncomfortable and took her arm so he could tell her softly that he was ready to leave. As he stared at the tunnel he realized it was rectangular, not rounded at all, the sides distinct, with lights glowing and flashing in the background. They were upstairs in the library and he was staring out the back door. Twilight was deepening into night and celestial bodies were just beginning to make themselves known.

He asked, gripping her arm, "Did you see anything in the tunnel?"

"Downstairs?"

"Yes."

"Steel."

"You saw…something metal?"

"Steel," she repeated, shaking her head. "His name's Steel."

"Is he…a vehicle? Some sort of a robot?"

"He's an alien," she said, shaking her head like she thought he was being ridiculous.

"Amanda…these aliens that you deal with, that you track down or shoot or what have you…do they come from _space_?"

"Duh," she replied, withdrawing from his grip, although his hand clenched in on itself rather than stretched open. She had just pulled her arm through his fingers as though one or the other of them didn't really exist.

"You have space aliens, here in New York?"

"Uh-huh."

"Creatures from other planets, other galaxies?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do they all look like that thing down there?" he asked, pointing toward the dark fireplace. He noticed that the split wood was back in place.

"No."

"What was that thing?"

"Alien."

He tried, "I know what you said it was, but what kind of an alien is it? What is it called?"

"Steel," she said, as he'd suspected.

Pendergast exhaled. "Is it sleeping? Will it hurt us? Does it know we are here?"

"Sleep," she said, nodding.

"Does it ever crawl up here?"

"Too big."

That made him hesitate. "It never comes up here? You have never seen it in the house before?"

"No."

A phone trilled. Pendergast waited. Three rings, and then he heard a soft beep. Alex had an answering machine or a fax. He exited the dark library and returned to the glow of light from the living room. The device was unknown to him, but displayed a rotating pattern he suspected meant it was in use. The pattern ceased and a number was illuminated. "Answering machine," he said. "I suppose some of your technology has been enhanced by alien visitors, while others remain similar to what I have in my own…reality." He'd wanted to say _world_, but knew too many coincidences indicated that they shared the same basic space.

The thing he had barely glimpsed haunted him as his imagination told him it was dangerous and monstrously huge and fast. Undoubtedly a predator, and the membrane was a portal it could use to gain access to the lab at least. Most of the people Pendergast knew would readily agree that the word _unflappable_ aptly described his demeanor, but this word seemed absent from his vocabulary so far as Amanda was concerned.

Curious, he toyed with the answering machine until a panel popped up, revealing an object embedded within it. Plucking it free, he saw it was a cellular phone and that the device also served as its charging station. When he activated the phone it greeted him as Alexander and displayed the company name that the account was held with. He recognized it and dialed, wondering whom he might get. Amazingly, the number matched the one in his memory, and he found himself speaking to someone with the NYPD. He requested his friend, Lieutenant D'Agosta's extension and was rerouted to an automatic voice response. "That designation does not match a file in our database," a stiff feminine voice told him. "Please choose a name from our current roster. Press one to hear last names A through L. Two to hear-" He pressed one. Vincent's name never came up in the list. Pendergast hung up.

"Too good to be true," he sighed.

It occurred to him that he might want to check on Roglitz. He ascended the stairs and turned on the bedroom lights. The man was as still as death, in the exact same position he had been in when he'd left him. Pendergast gently took the man's wrist and checked his pulse. It was steady and even. His breathing was slow, steady and deep, and his eyes were moving rapidly beneath the lids as though he'd entered an exciting dream. How long would it take him to assess the body he'd occupied and get help if he needed it? The pale man tried to recall exactly what had happened. He'd been tracking the suspect who had led him across the country on a killing spree, from Louisiana to Colorado, carving the very symbols from the Pendergast family crest into the bodies of his victims. Evidence suggested the man he'd been trailing had killed before, as a juvenile, done his time and been released only to rack up a pretty sizeable rap sheet of petty, progressively worsening crimes. A hunter who often holed up in a small cabin in Tennessee for months at a time, living off the grid and off the land, he was a fierce survivor, knowledgeable of maneuvering through mountain terrain, finding water, and disappearing. While they had never crossed paths before, it was clear that his current hobby was meant to provoke Aloysius specifically. Wary of a trap, he had willingly involved himself in the case, quickly deducing that the lowlife was not working alone, and in fact had likely been hired to lure the FBI agent to some remote location. The Bureau had assigned him a partner, and he'd quickly figured out that not only was she sent to assist him, but also to report back on his behavior to her supervisor. He remembered how she had fallen down a steep slope and called for help while struggling to avoid sliding farther off the edge of a ravine. He had stopped to save her, convinced they had almost been literally right on their suspect's back, and her cries of pain had brought the killer to them.

Pendergast entered the master bathroom to dab at his face with a damp towel. His earlier euphoria had faded and he was beginning to feel somewhat run down. The room was done in black and white like most of the rest of the house. The strange color scheme was unnerving.

The man's name was Raymond Houser, 32, originally from Ohio. A thick, hairy-faced fellow with a pasty complexion crisscrossed with fine red blood vessels and textured by large pores. He'd recognized the man from photos and surveillance footage, known whom he was when he suddenly appeared from around a small stand of pines at a place where the game trail turned, moving down a slope. His partner had gone silent, her eyes gazing past his hand as he lay on the ground, reaching for her. Pendergast had turned his head. Watched the figure clad in a grey T-shirt, open plaid shirt, open beige jacket over baggy light-colored cargo pants stumble in his haste up the rise. Because the female agent wasn't falling any farther, he'd regained his footing, adjusted his tie, preparing to speak when…when the most he could remember was a sensation of floating or falling, followed by sudden darkness.

He could not recall the man drawing down on him. Never saw anything other than pleasant surprise and a giddiness cross the man's ragged features. As he sought to remember detail, he wondered if he had seen the man's eyes cut to the side for a moment. Even if they had, was it significant? Had there been someone trailing the agents? Had some third party done something to him, injured him, pushed him off the edge?

He didn't know.

Could this Alexander do anything if he'd been mortally injured? Could he attempt to operate a body short of blood, with broken bones, or maybe an injury caused by some weapon? Was Alex stuck, unable to do anything? Did Aloysius lay in a coma even the self-proclaimed psychic could not revive from?

Gazing around the strangely cold room, he wondered if he could adjust to life in a world where space aliens threatened the population. If his body failed with Alex in possession of it, would he die, too? Would Alex return, or would they both perish? Amanda stood watching him from the doorway. She had successfully entered his reality once before, so there was always a way back home. But, if his body died…would Pendergast then be merely a ghost?

Roglitz had taken on the task of trying to revive him with little hesitation. He hoped it indicated confidence rather than gung-ho stupidity. But, would anyone partner someone like Amanda with an idiot? Was this like anything the large, brown-haired man had attempted before?

He had indicated he'd thought it would be easy.

But he'd also made it known that he really had no idea who Pendergast was nor even where he actually came from.

"Has he done this before?" He asked, staring down at the sleeping stranger.

The girl in the doorway shrugged, and then replied softly, "No idea."

"He kept saying that I am like you, that I am like a Quasar because I am apparently here in the flesh and yet no longer in occupancy of my body."

"Not like me," she said, causing him to flinch inwardly because he'd just seen her standing at the threshold, and her voice had emanated from right beside him.

"Forgive me," he said gently, turning to her. "I am attempting to assess my options should things go awry. I had thought this would have been resolved by now."

She pulled at his upper arm until he allowed her to lift it, and then she pressed herself up against his side with his arm draped over her shoulder and sighed.

Not the most affectionate fellow, he thought to draw his arm away, but offered her a slight reassuring squeeze instead. There was the possibility that she, too, might experience a loss because of all of this. While she clung to him, her eyes remained fixed on the figure that lay limp upon the bed.


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

Gripping a sapling to maintain his balance, the boy turned his back on the brightest of the glowing spots surrounding him and gazed down at a smaller, closer light source within a flat, grassy valley. It looked something like a trailer, but as he willed his eyes into sharper focus he saw that it was in fact a nice RV camper with an awning extending from one side. Willing his ears to elongate, cup, and prick forward, he caught either the sounds of a television program or of someone having a conversation on a phone. The voice was masculine, punctuated with grunts and occasional laughter. The breeze was blowing the wrong way for him to pick up any scents. If there were others with the man, they were inside, possibly asleep. The figure he could just barely make out looked short, but thick in a powerful way. There didn't seem to be any other signs of habitation in the vicinity. Intrigued, he skidded down the way he had come until he'd reached the extension of his arm. It had been difficult to mount the steep slope for a look from the peak, and dangerous to travel back down again in the darkness. A bird could easily leave the area, wend its way to the camper, not be seen or heard, but the energy he'd have to expend would take a tremendous toll on the body he was still trying to restore. A wolf could probably find its way to the stranger, but the dramatic alteration of form would shrink him to medium-dog size, forcing him to adopt the shape of a five or six year old by the time he was ready to make his presence known. Now another member of the primate family would take little energy or mass and be easily reverted back to full human when necessary. The boy's legs shrank as his arms lengthened and his torso became broad, filling with lean muscle. There was no need to go full ape; this was merely for the convenience of locomotion, not his chance to sneak into a zoo.

Much shorter, the ragged dark suit jacket better camouflaged his pale form. The ape-like creature eased down the slope at a sideways lope, occasionally using low branches and saplings to lower himself faster. He had to find a passage to the other side of the low peak. It seemed more likely that he'd pick up some kind of crevasse or trail on the lower side. Some twenty minutes later he was using his large hands and long, strong arms to ease himself through a narrow rock passage that would have trapped him in human form. He dropped into a young pine on the far side and slid down it painfully until his bottom hit rock. A startled raccoon ran from him. He considered pursuit, but was able to catch the scent of hot dogs when the breeze turned and preferred an easier meal. He heard the sound of a shotgun being readied, but knew that distance and darkness meant he was in little danger. The raccoon happened to chatter, and the figure by the TV relaxed his stance, though he continued to stand with the gun, gazing approximately in Alex's direction.

Across the sky sailed a streak of light that appeared to brighten just before it faded. Distracted, the creature marveled at how gorgeous the sky was without the haze of city lights and smog to obliterate it. The man had reseated himself, the gun balanced across his crossed legs. He guffawed at the program and drank from a bottle. Alex had made his way to the edge of the valley, stepping as quietly as possible through the tall weeds and woody growth that bordered it, altering his shape as he went. Crouching once he'd hit shorter vegetation, he began to circle the camper as he neared it. The man stood, stretched, checked his watch, and went inside. _Time to take a dump_, thought Roglitz. With luck, it would be a while before the guy made a reappearance.

It was never enough to look the part. The best predators also knew how to act. Alex approached the chair hesitantly, glancing apprehensively toward the warm glow behind the drawn blinds of the camper. Sure enough he found an aluminum pot full of beans and wieners and another of frankfurters simmering in beer. A dozen or more bottles of beer sat in more water than ice in a huge stockpot beside the aluminum and nylon strap chair. At the foot of the chair was a pile of dark hair. Beside it atop a large plastic storage tote was a small makeup mirror, scissors, a manicure set, and one dirty plastic glove. The glove's mate had fallen to the ground. Beside the door was a crude walking stick. He climbed the first step and knocked.

Silence in the camper. After a moment, activity shook it. Finally, "Who's there?" growled menacingly from within.

He knocked again, pleased when he heard the high pitch of his voice. "Hello? Can you help me? I'm lost and I'm hungry!"

He heard the sound of a clip being popped into a handgun and knew the guy had probably just rechecked his ammo supply.

"Can I have a hot dog? You've got, like, a whole package of them, and I'm starved! I haven't eaten anything but berries in days!"

The latch turned slowly and the door opened only a little. The man within had stepped back so he could peek at the newcomer from a safe distance. The child he saw was filthy, wearing someone else's torn clothes, nearly emaciated with red rings around his sunken, pale eyes. He neared enough to give the door a little kick to open it wider. The child looked pained, hopeful. "You lost?" he asked.

The kid nodded and wiped vigorously at his nose with one absurdly long sleeve. He looked like he was only maybe nine or ten. No one would use a kid in this bad a shape as bait to lure him into the open. "Where you from, kid?"

"Long Island," he replied. "Your hotdogs smell really, really good!"

The man relaxed a little. "Yeah, they do, don't they. You wanna come in first, clean yourself up a little?"

"I'm so hungry," the boy said, looking repeatedly back at the remains of the guy's fire. "I'm thirsty, too."

Unfortunately, the stranger's appearance was uncanny enough to keep the freshly shorn guy from believing him entirely. He had just seen the guy he'd been paid to lure west, and the resemblance was too close for coincidence: very fine light blond hair, nearly bloodless complexion, and those creepy colorless eyes. No one had said anything to him about the guy having a son. "How long you been out here?" he asked.

"I dunno," the boy said, flapping the loose ends of the sleeves. "My dad was supposed to meet us at the campsite. Said he was in the area. But Mom went out to look for firewood, and I haven't seen her…for like a day or two!"

"You want a wiener?" the guy inside asked, taking his lower lip between his teeth.

The kid nodded vigorously. "Please? Do you have a cell phone? I want to try and call my mom or dad, let 'em know I'm okay."

"Come in," the man beckoned, stepping away from the entrance, "and shut the door tight behind you." He could see the kid's bare feet were filthy and his legs were bleeding from a handful of scratches. It didn't look like he was wearing any pants, but it was hard to tell. Locking the door, he picked at the boy's clothing. "What's this you're wearing? This isn't your clothing, is it?"

"I found it in some bags of trash I found in the woods. It didn't smell bad yet, so I took it."

"What happened to your clothes?"

"They got all tore up and muddy," he replied, standing on his toes to get a better look around. There was a bedroom in the rear, just past the bathroom. The door was closed, but he could sense that there was someone in there. "Can I eat first, please? And maybe get a glass of water or somethin'?"

"Sure kid," the man replied, moving toward a sink. "What's your father do, anyways?"

"Do?"

"Yeah. For a livin'?"

"Oh, his work," the boy said, happy to accept a red plastic cup of tap water and down it in four big swallows. He sighed, looked dazed, then burped loudly. "Sorry. My dad…he's in the FBI."

The man nodded, thinking his suspicions had been correct.

"And your mother? What's she do?"

"Nothin' much…she's into helping us boy scouts with events and stuff, she goes to exercise class, she mostly does a lot of shoppin' and stuff." He extended his hand with the cup. "Could I have more? Please?"

"Yeah, you can have more." The guy turned to refill the cup. "So, you don't live out here?"

"No. I live with my mom. I'm tryin' to earn a badge for campin' and she finally said she'd take me, but she's really not very good at this kinda thing. Mostly she helps us out with sewing on our patches and makin' snacks for our pack meets and stuff."

"A real homebody," the guy said, turning with the cup.

"A what?"

"Not someone who normally camps."

"Yeah. So then it rained real hard—did you see it? It was amazing! And this little wall of water like this little wave just came rushin' down the mountain and it dragged the tent away like it was nothin'! And our stuff all floated away-"

"Hasn't rained in weeks. The ground's too hard packed to absorb it."

"Oh," the boy said, stopping to look around again after downing half his cup. "You out here campin' all by yourself?"

"Yeah," came the reply, and he never even glanced toward the bedroom.

"You shouldn't be alone when you camp for safety sake. I'm awful hungry, Mister."

"Oh, yeah," the man said, smiling as he bent toward the kid, easing his far hand behind his back. "I hear ya. You said you wanted a wiener, right?"

The child nodded with excitement.

A hand seized a shoulder and spun the kid in toward his body while the concealed hand rose with a chef's knife. The blade was made cheaply, but sharpened to a razor hone. The kid's legs dropped from under him and he fell from the man's tenuous grasp, scooting backward before regaining his feet and making a run for the door. The guy lunged, slashing downward, the child glancing off his descending arm and losing his balance, hitting the wall beside the door. He grunted and broke for the bedroom, hearing laughter behind him.

The door opened to reveal a bed so large it took up most of the available room, and atop it a woman, nude, bound by her ankles and wrists with silvery tape, another swath across her mouth and eyes. Her hair was wild, her body covered with bad bruises and dried blood. She was alive, trying to remain calm, trying to keep her breathing slow and even. The boy looked toward the windows, but was picked up from behind and carried into the shower where the larger man struggled to rip and slice the remaining clothing from the slight, pale body. He struggled weakly, upsetting himself to the point he began to vomit water and cry. The man tried to hold him with a length of moist, seed-speckled suit jacket sleeve around his throat and one shoulder while using a free hand to fumble with his pants. He had the child pinned in a corner, standing at a slight angle, most of his back exposed. The plastic curtain gave him an idea and he tried to rip it down to wrap the boy in, but it didn't fall completely with one yank. While he was distracted, he failed to see the child's waist turn, so that his feet protruded behind him and his knees bent toward the rear. The kick to his groin surprised him more than anything and he screamed at the boy to stay still, or he'd kill him.

"I ain't afraid of you!" the kid screamed back, kicking wildly.

Struggling with the knife still in his hand, he jabbed it up beneath the child's throat, accidentally ramming the tip up through soft flesh so that it met the underside of his jawbone. The look of pain and shock on the kid's face turned to cruel cunning. He threw an elongated arm at the faucet, yanking it on. They both jumped at the blast of cold water. The enraged man snorted derisively and mashed the boy into the corner, jamming his hips against the small buttocks.

"Do it and die," the kid growled low.

"Screw you, you little bastard!" the man laughed, watching blood flow from the wound he had inflicted, staining what was left of the huge white shirt. "Ain't nobody comin' to save you! Your folks's dead! And you're next, Boy!"

The child passed out, or so the man thought as he watched him sink toward the floor of the shower slowly. He felt something grab hold of one ankle and lifted his leg to see a long, pale tentacle attached to it. Shrugging, the kid told him, "Fine. Don't do it, die anyhow—your choice."

He thought he saw a light come on behind the kid's pupils, and then he heard himself exhaling a terrible noise. Alex had built up a charge like an electric eel and unleashed it on the creep, shocking the urine out of him through the hold he had on his ankle. Enraged and excited by the opportunity to take the cretin out, he kept up the shock until blood vessels broke all over the guy's body and his eyes rolled back into his head. By the time Alex had resumed the natural shape of his big toe and turned the water off, the man was well dead. He considered going to the aid of the beaten and bound woman, but needed to feed himself first.


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

"I have a confession," Pendergast announced as he stood staring into the open cabinets before him. "When we last met, you told me that your partner was a chef, and I…thought you were merely embellishing on the notion that he was a good cook. But this," he continued, reaching up for a short cylindrical canister marked _Grains Of Paradise_ and another that indicated the contents within were known as _Herbes de Provence_, "this seems to prove me wrong." He'd discovered seven different types of salt and eight of pepper, flours made from four different grains, seven different mustards, six assorted cooking oils not including home-rendered fats in glass jars labeled _bacon, sausage, smoked pork_, and _spicy sausage_. In the freezer were quart containers of beef stock, poultry stock, mixed specie, vegetable, seafood, and roasted bone stock, labeled and dated. There were quail eggs stored in the refrigerator along with brown chicken eggs. "Does someone come and cook for you, or do you do any cooking, my dear?"

Amanda leaned against the edge of the doorway and told him, "No."

"Alexander truly has had training in the culinary arts?"

"Think he worked in a restaurant," she muttered.

"Tavern On The Green? The Four Seasons? The Rainbow Room? The Russian Tea Room?" He was teasing, but wouldn't be surprised if she indicated one of them had been his employer at some point in time.

"I dunno…Chinatown?"

"Chinatown? Really?" But as he said this, he happened to look down in the lower cabinets he had left open and saw that indeed easily half of the pots and pans were woks and steamers. "Cantonese? Szechwan? Mandarin?"

She sounded tired. "I don't know."

He picked up on her tone and turned toward her. "I am immensely curious about this version of my…reality, and of the man who allegedly now possesses my body…but, as before, there is nothing more fascinating to my senses than you."

There was that shy smile again.

He began closing all of the cabinets. "How old are you, Amanda?"

"Not sure."

"Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Did you have a…a boyfriend before you met Alex?" When she didn't respond immediately, he glanced her way and saw the struggle on her face.

"No," she finally decided.

"Alex mentioned that it is unlikely that you look now the way you did before you were…Quasared."

"What?"

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" he trailed off, uncertain how to mend his faux pas.

"Not the same?" she asked from just behind his right arm. He looked back toward the doorway and saw she had covered a couple of yards in the speed of thought. Did she actually run, dematerialize and then rematerialize, or was she utilizing an aspect of quantum physics to transport her cells across space and time at the speed of light?

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know," he said gently. If he upset her, how would he ever calm her down? He had witnessed her supernatural displays of strength and reflexes. Obviously, she had to possess some sort of weakness in order for Alex to control her. "My main interest in your appearance stems from the fact that you apparently appear some years younger than your actual chronological age."

Her eyes narrowed and she slid her mouth to the side in a dubious pucker until a sudden rapping upon the front door distracted her.

Pendergast froze. He dared not slip out of the kitchen because he'd be exposed to anyone standing on the other side of the sliding glass door at the back of the house. It was dark out and there were lights on inside. It very likely appeared that someone was home. "You said no one else stays here, no visitors drop by."

"Maybe Geoff," she said, heading for the living room until the hand on her shoulder halted her progress.

"Who is Geoff?"

"Friend," she said with a shrug.

"Yours or Alex's?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Do you know it is Geoff, or do you merely suspect it?"

He winced as she told him, "I dunno."

"Does anyone else have a key to this place?"

"Don't think so."

The knocking continued, growing louder with each refrain. Pendergast made his way toward one of the small, high kitchen windows and remained low, to the side, and as far back as possible as he attempted to peer without. "I see a BMW. And a woman…with very dark hair."

He turned to look at Amanda, and saw only the lower half of her as she leaned through the wall for a peek. She found herself yanked backward abruptly. "Halbot."

"Halbot…." He had heard the name earlier. It was someone who worked for ArtReal, someone possibly high-placed. Someone who might have made inquiries regarding the FBI agent who had visited her workplace asking to speak with a Quasar. She wouldn't have turned up anything. She might have even caused concern with the belief that there was a man posing as an FBI agent asking after one of their Quasars. "Are you psychic, Amanda? Like Alex? Can you do what he does?"

"No. Not really. Maybe sorta…."

Not good enough. The woman had stepped back for a look toward the windows and called Roglitz's name. If she was alone, it signified that no one was investigating the alleged imposter case. The phone trilled again. Pendergast stole another peek and saw that Halbot was on her cell. Would she go away? Try the back door? The phone stopped and the knocking resumed. Soon thereafter the agent heard the unmistakable sound of a lock being picked. He seized the Quasar and commanded, "Home! Now!" Before he could blink, he'd noticed the drastic alteration of their surroundings. The tall, pale man exhaled with relief, then had an afterthought. "Amanda, we need Alex here, now!" At his feet lay the big, unconscious Russian.


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

Hot dogs, beef jerky, Slim Jims, bacon, eggs, butter, part of a large brick of cheese, canned beans, most of a loaf of bread, some mackerel filets packed in hot sauce, three slices of leftover pizza, a jar of peanut butter, two small cans of Vienna sausages, half a box of stale crackers. He ate it all. Because he was a creature of flesh, flesh was the most practical means of adding mass to his body, so by the time he had finished, he looked more like a young man of seventeen or eighteen.

Aware the woman had drifted to sleep from exhaustion, he continued to ignore her, dragging the body from the shower so he could use it to clean himself up. She froze and feigned sleep when he entered the bedroom, finding a cheap packaged T-shirt on the bed along with a brand-new ball cap in camouflage with the silhouette of a buck embroidered on it, and a single pair of cotton briefs in a drawer. The only other clothing available to him was on the corpse. Rolling his eyes, he went to retrieve the body so he could try and figure out what was worth stealing and what he'd rather avoid touching if possible. Finally he clothed himself in the almost see-through T-shirt, the man's flannel shirt and cargo pants. Everything was too big, although the pants, too short, were baggy enough to meet the tops of the boots he stole if he wore them belted low.

The captive was a unique problem. She had thought more than once of Pendergast, though not in any fond way. He had figured out she was connected with the FBI by paying attention to the conversations she kept running through her head between herself and some supervisor type, although the person she imagined herself reporting to was sometimes someone else entirely, at which point her mentally rehearsed explanation was altered slightly. He understood she had been more of a snitch than an assistant, and that the agent's apparent demise was a relief to her. Her guilt kept her from replaying all of the details of his death in her head, but Alex knew she had witnessed him being taken out while he'd been in the midst of trying to save her. Something had gone wrong shortly after, and instead of getting rescued from where she'd hung over a precipice, she'd been abducted, brutally beaten, and raped. He couldn't linger in her thoughts when she felt sorry for herself because her strong emotions would manifest in him. All he knew for certain was that Pendergast had been double-crossed and that this possibly phony FBI agent was definitely in on it. He could easily dispose of her, but if she legitimately was a federal agent—even if she proved to be dishonest—it would undoubtedly cause problems for the guy whenever Alex decided to let him have his body back.

He would not return it to him in anything other than pristine condition. Without knowing exactly how the man looked in real life, he could only relax his notion of how the body should be formed while manipulating its shape, allowing it to go into what he thought of as its default mode or factory setting. From what he'd seen in the bathroom mirror, it looked like the agent's physical form resembled his avatar's exactly. That would make things go a lot smoother as he sought and added more mass to it.

A sharp rap at the door was followed by a chuckle. Alex used his psychic ability to figure out that two men stood just outside, acknowledging they were late for a meeting with the pervert he had offed. A third entity was listening intently to a late-night radio program, probably inside of a nearby automobile. He was trying to determine how to handle the visitors when one recalled he had a key to the camper and used it, catching the teenager by surprise. The first man to enter was running his mouth and not paying attention. The second immediately saw him and stopped in his tracks, tugging at the sleeve of the first guy.

Once he had their attention, he remained still, watching them curiously, trying to affect an imperious stare. The body of the killer lay not far from him, propped partially up between the toilet and the wall.

The first guy whipped a butterfly knife from his pocket while the second removed a small handgun from a holster strapped to his calf.

Alex asked them, "Who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell are _you?"_ came the idiotic response from guy number two.

"I asked first."

"An' I asked second."

Rolling his pale blue eyes, Alex stepped toward the men confidently. "I'm just trying to clean up a little mess, is all. You gonna help me, or are you just gonna add to it?"

"'zat the serial killer? Randall, Roland, whasisname?"

Alex answered, "Used to be. You supposed to meet 'im?"

The first guy toyed with his knife before putting it away. "What happened?"

"He went too far. Got the girl in the back bound in Duct tape. Beat the crap out of her, used her like an old sock. On our side or not, she's still gotta be accounted for."

"She livin'?"

He shrugged. "So far. We're gonna hafta try and figure out what to do with her."

"You know for a fact the agent guy's dead?"

He hadn't realized they might want proof. Had Roland or Ronald or whomever taken a trophy? A photo? Something…. "All I know is, I got here just in time," he replied testily.

The guy with the gun moved past them to check out the corpse. "How'd you off 'im?"

"It was kind of a lucky accident," he answered, chuckling lightly. "Idiot slipped, cracked his head on the floor.

Gun Guy had checked for a pulse and found none. He jerked a thumb toward the door to the bedroom. "She awake?"

"She can hear us, but that's all."

"Why didn't you let her go?"

"She's so wound up from what he did to her," Alex lied, making things up as he went, "I was afraid she'd run off and get herself hurt before I could get some help for her."

"Help," chuckled Gun Guy. He found a folded, bloodstained hand towel on the floor near the shower and prodded it with his toe. "What's this?"

"I tried to clean up a little." He actually hadn't paid much attention to the terrycloth, thinking it was something that had been used previously and just left lying around. The guy stared at him as he squatted and unfolded the it. He looked at the contents for some time before finally announcing, "This is it. Must be." He picked up the grisly morsel by a few hairs, letting it dangle from his thumb and forefinger. "Look. He scalped him."

Alex flinched, revolted.

Knife Guy moved past him to poke at the souvenir with the point of his knife. "What's left of it," he corrected, punctuating the comment with a low, loose chortle.

"His signature," the boy said, nodding slightly as if he'd known it all along.

Knife Guy gestured toward the bedroom. "You catch him in the act?"

"Yeah. I didn't know if he was tormenting her or killing her."

"Sicko."

"Yeah," he agreed. "You gonna help me get rid of him, or what?"

"We came to do it ourselves," Gun Guy admitted. "Saved us some trouble."

Alex nodded grimly.

Then Gun Guy gave Knife Guy a withering look.

"What?"

"We cut him in?" he asked, tilting his head in the direction of the pale teen.

"Hey," Knife Guy asked, "Who are you anyway?"

"You don't need to know that," Alex replied coolly.

"Well I asked you, so I'd kinda like to know."

"I was sent from higher up," he bluffed, lifting an eyebrow as though daring them to challenge his story, "to make certain all the loose ends were tied."

"You're just a kid," the man snorted. "You somebody's son or something'?"

"It's not your concern. Deed is done. Everybody's happy 'cept the girl."

"Cut her loose," Gun Guy said.

"Too panicky."

Knife Guy pantomimed slitting her throat.

Alex shrugged.

The camper door opened and the third guy entered silencer first. He stepped up into the body of the camper and quickly surveyed the scene. He turned his weapon on Alex, but stared at him as though something wasn't quite right. His eyes traveled the kid's body from hair to floor and back again before he finally spoke. "Hey, you're that kid. The one they was raisin' in the jungle, right? You're name is like Alvin or something…. I seen you once before from a distance. You're like genetically enhanced or somethin', right?"

Sensing awe from the two men behind him, Alex straightened and mentioned, "It is not your concern."

"Hey," the newcomer laughed, tucking his weapon into his waistband and withdrawing a cigar from a breast pocket of his safari jacket, "this kid's the kid of the guy I killed!"

"He's what?" asked Gun Guy, dropping the remains of Pendergast's scalp and standing.

"This is the guy's son. The agent! The Fed's kid. They like took you away when you were just a baby, right? Guy never saw you? Never met his own kid?"

"This body needs to be disposed of," Alex said in a commanding tone, playing along with their impressions of this Alvin person and his alleged status. "The female agent is in the bedroom. Free her or get rid of her, I don't care which."

Silencer Guy sobered, staring warily at the teen. "You just here to make sure your old man's dead?"

"My job is done," he snapped. "I'll need a ride back when you're done."

Silencer Guy wagged a finger at the other two, "Get this crap cleaned up and outta here. We'll take the broad with us."

Alex had no idea if his ruse would fool the woman. Did she know enough about Pendergast to recognize that he was not his son?

"I had her in my sights," the man mentioned, biting the end off his cigar and spitting bits of tobacco in the general direction of the kitchen sink he was too far from to hit.

Alex knew that this man was Pendergast's killer. He saw the view through the spotting scope switch from the back of her head toward the nearly white hair of Amanda's new friend. The creep smiled as he recalled the satisfaction of watching part of his victim's skull fly away, the spatter of blood that had misted the air, the way the body had dropped like it was boneless, the serial killer kicking it down the slope the other agent had lain helpless on. He forced a slight smile. "Too messy," was all he said.

"Y'know, we could just burn this thing, roll it off an embankment," the man suggested, plucking the wet end of the cigar from his mouth to admire his mastication of it.

"That would certainly erase any clues," Alex said.

"Leave everything," Silencer Guy said, waving the other two away from the body they had laid out atop a large towel. "We'll just burn it."

Knife Guy looked at Gun Guy. "Do you know how hot it needs to get before a human body burns?"

Silencer Guy grinned and drew a square in the air before his face. "Hotter than it takes to burn this trailer?"

"It's an RV," Gun Guy corrected.

"Same thing," Silencer Guy said, turning away from them, conversation over.

"What about the woman?" Knife Guy queried.

"She'll burn, too."

"There could be complications," Alex warned him.

The man actually bit into and tore off a section of cigar to chew. "Nothin' complicated unless you make it complicated." He dared reach to settle an arm around the boy's shoulders. "You speak German?" Alex was about to reply when the disgusting murderer mentioned, "My mother was from Sicily. Never learned the language. I grew up speaking two languages just so I could converse with her." Alex nodded, trying to figure out where the guy was heading with this. "Get some flammable stuff. Pile it all up together. Get this thing ready to light." He swallowed and said into Alex's ear, "What I don't get is how you happen to have this Brooklyn accent."

"I've been practicing," the teen said, heart pounding.

"You don't need a ride nowhere—you're already here."

"My car broke down," he tried, remaining calm and uppity.

"Bull. You were that kid, you'd be far too valuable to let outta their sight."

"Screw you," Alex spat, disengaging himself roughly from the man's unwelcome grasp.

"Yeah, that's the accent," Silencer Guy said. "Why shouldn't I let you burn, too?"

The other two were watching from the bathroom.

"Because the people I deal with will do a hell of a lot worse to you, _schweinhund!"_

"Pig dog!" the guy laughed, little bits of tobacco peppering his lower lip. "Guy called me pig dog!"

Knife Guy asked, "Pig dog?"

"_Dummkopf,"_ Alex snarled, slapping the remains of the cigar out of the larger man's hand.

There was a brief silence. Finally, the cigarless man mentioned, "Okay. That's a word I don't know."

"You wanna know something, Butthole? Just keep runnin' that mouth of yours. You were hired for your eye, not your half-rotted freakin' brain."

Cigar guy nodded slowly, appreciatively. "Okay. I believe you. For now," he added, walking past the kid, stepping on his own cigar.


	12. Chapter 12

**12**

"Grab his feet," Pendergast instructed, holding the big guy up by his armpits.

Amanda approached from the side and took hold of Roglitz about his middle, lifting him away effortlessly. She drew the limp man up toward herself and gazed down at his face as his head lolled backward. For a moment, the scene brought to mind the _Pieta_ until the unconscious man's mouth popped open and he issued a loud snore.

"Is he asleep, or in a meditative state?" Pendergast waved his hand at the teen, looking away. "Why do I bother asking?" He moved toward the sitting room and told her to lay the guy out on the divan. The furnishings were antique, created in a time when people weren't enhancing livestock with growth hormones and thereby weren't so large themselves. Roglitz's head was bent at an uncomfortable looking angle, his legs askew, feet touching the floor. "I think a bed would suit him better."

He turned back to say something to her as he was ascending the stairs, but she wasn't following. When he looked back up, he saw her alighting in the hallway above after having flown the man over the banister. "That's right," the pale man realized, brightening. "This is my unconscious. I can do as I please here." He bent and launched himself upward, clearing the rest of the staircase in a graceful leap.

"Now like me," the Quasar informed him.

"Indeed I am," he agreed, smiling at her. "Let's set him in here until he awakens. I wish I knew what he's experiencing. Was I hurt that badly? I exist, therefore I live still. I am becoming somewhat alarmed by this experiment." He pushed a door open, revealing a guest bed. The girl arranged her partner upon it. He was still too big for the twin-size iron bed, but it looked more comfortable than the divan had. Pendergast stood staring at the stranger, one arm crossed before his chest as a resting place for his other elbow. He pushed the second joint of his index finger absently against his jawbone. "No offense, but I would very much like to resume my previous existence."

Amanda looked at him, confused. In some ways she functioned almost like a djinn, manifesting whatever she or someone whose well being she cared about desired. What he'd just confessed wasn't anything she was able to grant.

He ushered her out of the room, closing the door over behind them. "There are so many things I still wish I knew about you," he said, strolling the hallways, astonished at the detail his own memory had brought to this imaginary version of his Beaux-Arts domicile. "But I know you are far too dangerous to exist in my reality. How on earth do they keep you safe in yours?"

"_Me?"_ she asked, a crooked smile upon her lips.

"Do you know how you were created? How you were transformed from an ordinary woman into an extraordinary girl?"

She inhaled deeply. "Something…nightmares…machines…scientists."

"Nightmares?" That intrigued him. "What sort of nightmares do you have?"

"_No!"_ the girl blurted, her breath coming in quick gulps. She shook her head imploringly, her large eyes seemingly even larger as she pulled at his sleeve.

"I take it, then, that perhaps nightmares are one of your weaknesses. When I experience a nightmare, I tend to lose or forget all of my other dream abilities…yes. That would be problematic for you."

His own eyes widened considerably as they heard a sudden clamor, a steady, deep, house-rattling banging as though a giant was beating on the mansion with a sequoia. The teenager clung to him, squeezing him nearly breathless while dust and minute debris rained down around them with every terrifying blow. He held her and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, yelling, "It's okay, Amanda! It's nothing to fear! My best guess would be…that perhaps I am…currently under….going an MRI!"

"_What?"_ she screamed into the fabric covering his chest.

"It's a med…ical exam. Using…magnets and it….makes a loud…banging sound."

It halted abruptly. He could feel her quaking as she clung to him. He stroked her back awkwardly until she calmed enough to look away from him. Did the cessation of the horrendous, nerve-wracking banging sounds indicate the exam was over, that he had guessed correctly, or that he had simply assuaged her fears? Had the event been a product of his unconscious or of hers?

"Sick?" she asked, reaching up to press the cool back of her hand against his forehead.

"I believe I was injured. Perhaps badly. That's why I came here. I was beginning to think I may have fallen into a coma."

She poked his chest. "You're okay."

"Yes, but my body lies in another reality, and that's what may be damaged."

"But, you're here."

"I appear to be here, but this is only a projection of my will."

"Like…Quasar."

His eyes narrowed as he gently disengaged himself from her. "Yes…perhaps so."

She stepped forward and plunged a hand through his chest and he hesitated, uncertain of her intent. The sensation was blissful, calming, titillating. He reached for her arm and pulled gently at it, backing away until he had extracted her from himself. "Oh," he said softly.

"Not…like Quasar?"

"I have no idea what you hoped to prove by doing that."

She closed in on him again and he took two steps backward before turning. He'd only just begun to lengthen his stride when he was overcome by an amazing sensation of weightlessness, effervescence, lethargy, and contentment. When he was able to think again, he found he was bent over his own knees, weak, or…intoxicated. He looked around, but didn't see her. The sensation persisted and he sank happily to the floor, the carpet moving beneath him like gentle waves, the walls fading into mists, a warm, soft light filling his vision. Unable to resist it, he went lax, feeling the way he did in the aftermath of a fervor.


	13. Chapter 13

**13**

Astounding clarity overtook him like a tidal wave. Alex felt like he was swelling, like he was on top of the world, like it was the greatest day of his life. He stood drunkenly watching the a-holes distribute flammable materials throughout the camper, a big, stupid smile on his face. He recognized the feeling of invincibility that Amanda gave him whenever she shared his physical form, concealing herself within him, but there was something more going on that he'd never experienced before. The idiots had siphoned some of the diesel from the vehicle to use as an accelerant. He and the hired hitman exited so they could breathe fresher air. He felt light on his feet as though, if he so desired, he could leap suddenly into the air like Superman, but he simultaneously felt as relaxed as a kitten dozing in a shaft of sunlight. He had left his body back at the house, and it was altogether possible that his Quasar had decided to possess it, but why would she? What had happened that would make her hide there…or animate his unconscious form? Did she suddenly need to impersonate him for some reason? Was she simply entertaining the creepy FBI guy? Was the house on fire and it was the first means of extracting him that she could think of?

A little unsteady, he moved toward the rear of the Avalanche the others had driven up in and half-sat, half propped himself against the rear bumper. Head lolling, he shook it to clear it and found himself marveling at the gorgeous deep colors of the night sky, the brushstroke clouds sliding by the moon, the silver gilt of moonlight on the sleeping earth below, the awe-inspiring swath of diamond-like stars in the sky above.

He was staring at the Milky Way, trying to identify constellations and realizing they exactly matched the ones in his own reality when Cigar Guy gave him a shove. "I said, you want some beef jerky?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice hoarse and velvety.

The man appraised him skeptically. "You high?"

Alex snickered, then wiped a little spittle from the corner of his mouth with his arm.

"You holdin' out on me, man? What the hell you got makes you feel that good? Maybe I want some!"

"All you want," he replied, moving fluidly to his feet as he drove one arm through the guy's chest just past his elbow. The cigar hit his arm on its way down. The man's mouth had popped open and his hands had risen far too late to defend himself. He slid toward the boy who withdrew his sticky, red limb, catching a brief glimpse of an arm that terminated in an insectile, wickedly sharp point before he hit the ground.

Alex smiled as he reformed his hand.

He used the guy as an ottoman as he regained his perch on the back of the truck.

Not long after, the other two morons emerged, talking to each other, unable to see their dead companion until they were almost right up on him.

"Hey, what's the problem with McClune?" Knife Guy asked, bending to shake him.

Gun Guy was watching the teenager with disgust as he took long, slow licks of something dark that streaked his arm. "What the hell is that?"

Alex shrugged. "McClune."

"What?"

Knife Guy could make out dark, glistening wetness in the center of the hitman's chest. "What the?" He moved quickly, withdrawing a small revolver from his waistband. The pale teen launched himself into the line of fire, taking one to the shoulder that threw his trajectory off. He landed hard on his side with a grunt. Rolling over, he smiled up at the dufus, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as the next bullet pierced his skull. Opening his eyes, he laughed giddily and began to get up. Gun Guy had already drawn his weapon and fired three shots into the boy's chest, slowing his progress with each jolt, then emptied his clip in fear into the kid's head, mutilating him, but failing to stop him. Urine wet the front of his pants. His gun glanced off the fiend's ruined forehead. Knife Guy turned and ran.

He felt in his pocket for his knife as he fled, tripping over low-lying clumps of vegetation and nearly twisting his ankle when he found a slight depression unexpectedly. The kid was right behind him, bloody, grinning like a demon, laughing between panted breaths. Yelping, he strove for speed, but the undead thing caught his legs in a flying tackle, and he felt something large enter his flesh through the fabric of his jeans just before his consciousness was forced violently from his body.

Gun Guy had leaped into the vehicle and locked the door, failing to find the keys in the ignition or on the floor. He could hear his partner yowling with terror and could just make out the two figures covering ground toward a thick stand of trees at the edge of the valley. They dropped from view, and he sat still, listening. Whatever that crazy monster-kid was, it sure didn't die easy. He knew he'd have to exit the vehicle to search McClune for the keys. He'd be exposed, but only while the monster was pre-occupied. Was it a zombie? Some kind of vampire? Just the end result of some really horrific drugs? Hadn't McClune said something about genetic experiments? The kid had spoken German…was he some kind of Nazi horror, developed after the Second World War?

If he wanted the keys, he had to act fast. He yanked the door handle, but didn't quite time it right and threw himself against the still shut door with a loud groan of pain. The second snatch opened the door, and he nearly fell in his scramble toward the back of the vehicle. The kid might be on his way back to finish the job. He wasn't going to waste any time trying to see where he was or what he was doing. He skidded to his knees and tried to frisk the corpse, locating the keys, but fumbling them to the ground in his haste. "Jesus H.," he heard himself whisper repeatedly as though the Savior would appear suddenly and forgive all of his sins before enjoying a hardy laugh at the insane situation. "Jesus H., Jesus H…."

He almost fell trying to rise to his feet. He'd never tried to move so fast in all of his life and it was as though his body couldn't keep up with the speed of his will. He heard fast-approaching footsteps and bellowed in anguish before diving through the rear door and sliding across the seats, curling against the far door as he turned to face the approaching terror.

The thing that neared the vehicle was not the kid, or if it was, it had changed somehow, become even scarier. Besting seven feet and closing in on three hundred pounds, the massive human-like thing lowered its pale head for a look inside. All Gun Guy could think of was an albino version of the Incredible Hulk, and he knew the Chevrolet would be no match for it. As he scrambled for the driver's seat, the creature ripped open the door he had neglected to lock. He screamed like a caught rabbit when a hand closed around his ankle like an anaconda and he caught the headrest with one hand, the steering wheel with the other. The monster paused, and then jerked his body like an unruly hair from his scalp, dislocating his right leg at the hip. He screamed and wept as he applied a death-grip to the headrest, the fingers of his right hand broken from where they'd been snatched so hard from the steering wheel. Snapping his body like a whip, the monster pulled his dazed prey from the vehicle and stood over him, smiling. Gun Guy cowered and trembled. "No! No!" His voice was so tremulous as to be nearly unintelligible. As he shook and babbled through slack, wet lips, he watched the thing fumble with its pants and knew real horror. But it only urinated on him, hot, wet, stinking pee, as though marking him as its own. As he trembled, close to hyperventilating, the thing moved off to the side, and his breaths came out in ragged gasps as he slowly attempted to pull himself back up into the Chevy. Then he saw a shadow behind him in the glossy paint of the black vehicle and uttered a squeaking whimper just before he was brutally beaten to death with the body of McClune.


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

Pendergast slowly grew aware of himself and his surroundings. He felt as though he had just returned from the most wonderful dream without the harshness of actually waking. The girl was straddling his midsection, her weight on her knees as she watched him. "You okay?"

He smiled at her, feeling strange, moving far too slowly as he propped himself on his elbows and nodded. "Yes. Yes…I think so."

Amanda offered him a quick nod, then got to her feet and reached for his hand. He lay back down with a sigh, and then began to raise a hand toward her. She bent to accept it, and then hauled him upright. The agent stumbled forward until he had her pinned to the nearest wall, sagging against her, breathing deeply in an effort to clear his head. "Forgive me," he muttered as she squeezed free of him so that he had to support himself against the wall. When he felt strong enough, he turned her way. "You…did that, didn't you?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him with bemusement. "Not a Quasar," she'd decided.

"That was your test?"

She turned and walked away.

He felt like he was stuck in afterglow. "Amanda," he said softly as he sought to catch up to her. "Please…Amanda."

"Hm?" She halted and turned to watch him as he slowed down, still weak.

"What you just did…what…did you do?"

Smiling, she shook her head like he was some kind of an idiot.

"Was that…no…I have no idea…." He swallowed and smiled at her, his eyes heavy-lidded. "That was…amazing. Whatever it was."

"'kay," she said indifferently. Looking around the second floor, she told him, "This is boring."

"Was I…I mean, did that take long? How long…I mean…."

"Doesn't matter," she replied softly.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. So long as we're here and your partner has not yet relinquished control of my body…." He shuddered with unexpected pleasure and then the sensation faded like a gorgeous sunset. Did she do things like that to Roglitz? "Thank…you," he mentioned awkwardly.

She shrugged. "Play in the gym again?"

Pendergast chuckled. "Do you think I could possibly take you now?" But the notion of physical contact with her made him uneasy. "Perhaps…we should go somewhere else. Find something to occupy ourselves with…no. I need to know the moment Alexander awakens. I need to know what's wrong with me and if it's safe for me to return to my own reality."

"Reality," the girl repeated, looking skeptical.

"Every reality is your reality, isn't it?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

"Every new situation you encounter…is like a dream. A string of dreams you never awaken from."

"'sokay," she grunted.

"You entered my reality once before. I wonder…if we could do it again? Could we go to Colorado, find my body, maybe assist Alexander somehow?" He took a deep breath. "It is possible, isn't it? We could find him."

"I can find him," she said.

"But what about me? In my reality…would I remain like this? Like you? A quasi-reality?"

"You're here," she told him flatly.

"Yes, but…is there some way we could travel there together? Could I go with you? I don't want you to bring him back to me before he's completed his task, but I also fear losing you if I'm to be trapped here this way forever."

She thought hard, twisting her mouth to the side. "You…could be Alex."

He considered. "But then how would he return to himself when he's done?"

She shrugged.

"I wish I could trust the time here," he murmured, heading back for the room where they had left him. "It feels like hours have passed, although it could as easily be seconds…or perhaps even days?"

The Quasar had no response to that, so she simply trailed him back to the room where her partner lay still, quiet, barely alive.

"Perhaps, if I attempted to wake him myself…ease him into a state similar to hypnosis, then maybe I could question him while he continues to function within my reality." He looked toward the girl who looked back at him blankly. "And perhaps I could see if placing his hand in a bowl of warm water causes him to wet himself." The girl didn't laugh. Shrugging, he told her, "Sorry."


	15. Chapter 15

**15**

The fire burned brightly enough that he was certain a passing aircraft would report it before morning, and if not then someone would investigate the thick, black smoke after sunrise. He drove as close as he could to the spot where Pendergast had been shot and left for dead. Abandoning the Avalanche, he withdrew the bound woman from the back seat and toted her along the trail they had followed until he reached the spot he recognized from the agent's memory. He didn't know why, but at about the time he had experienced his wonderful, horrific euphoria, he had found himself experiencing memories that were not his own. It had frightened him while he'd busied himself dragging the bodies into the camper and emerging with the female FBI agent. He had wondered briefly if Pendergast had actually died, allowing him full access to his identity.

He used Knife Guy's knife to cut through the tape that bound her wrists, and then allowed her to pull free the pieces across her mouth and eyes. She wasn't able to see right away and sat, relatively helpless on the ground, picking at her eyelashes and wiping at her watery eyes with one arm. When she could finally make out the lone figure standing over her, she squinted with uncertainty. Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky was significantly lighter. She had to clear her throat and try again after her first attempt to speak. "Agent Pendergast?"

Alexander, being telepathic, was a linguistics expert, knowing what someone was trying to communicate whether they spoke American English or not. He occasionally went undercover and affected accents if need be, but old, rich, New Orleans was not one he'd had many opportunities to practice. During the drive he'd mentally rehearsed some conversation, disliking the way the soft, buttery pronunciation seemed to slow him down, and reminding himself not to venture into Foghorn Leghorn. "Hello, Rebecca," he replied warmly, his features anything but.

"Can you help me with my ankles?" she asked, curling over herself to struggle with the tape. She looked up at the sound of a gun being cocked, noticed the silencer. The man she thought was Pendergast utilized the butterfly knife while keeping the gun aimed at her face, his finger on the trigger. She tugged the tape away, then remained seated, uncertain how to proceed. "That, that monster he…he…."

"I know," the old southern accent assured her softly.

"He beat the crap out of me. He completely overpowered me. I thought you were dead. I saw you go over the edge," she said, gesturing to the sharp drop beside her and realizing where he had brought her.

"It's a longer way down than you'd think," he said.

She drew her legs up beneath herself and started to rise to her knees.

"Not yet," he told her.

"I don't understand."

"Who were you reporting on me to?"

She was quiet for a moment. "It was kind of a side thing. I received unmarked envelopes stuffed with cash. I honestly have no idea who it was."

He believed her. "Did you know we were being followed?"

"I wasn't sure," she lied. "I thought I'd seen some hikers or something. I had no idea they were stalking us."

"Me," he corrected, watching her massage her wrists and ankles. "Why did they want me dead?"

"I don't know." She glanced up to see the rage on his face. "I never saw them before! I had no idea who they were!"

"Did you know I was lured here? By Raymond? That he'd been hired to get me out in the middle of nowhere?"

She began to sniffle and her voice cracked. "Please, Aloysius, I had no idea what they wanted with you! I thought I was sent to baby-sit you with your record and all."

"My record?"

"You leave a trail of bodies everywhere you go. I mean, have you ever brought anyone to justice? You seem to find a reason to kill them all…or they seem to find their own means by accident."

Alex found the news intriguing. Just because he had access to the man's memories didn't mean he necessarily knew how to trigger them. It had been weird in the camper, glancing at things and having odd associations pop up in his mind. Things that otherwise meant nothing to him drew forth memories in other settings, other circumstances. He'd had to concentrate to keep his mind from wandering.

Rebecca said, "Can we go now? I need to get to a doctor."

"Get up," he told her, and she rose unsteadily, trying to push stray hairs from her face while a breeze from the valley floor tousled her strawberry blonde locks from behind. "Turn around."

"No," she pleaded, cowering, weeping.

"I survived it. You can, too."

"What? What are you talking about? The fall?"

"Go ahead and look down over the edge."

"I can't see the edge from here."

He walked up to her and she shrieked and tried to dodge him. He tripped her and she went down the slope, her fingers trying to find purchase in the soil like claws. She didn't slide far, but cringed there like an insect, openly wailing.

"Why are you doing this? I'll confess that I ratted on you for the money! I'll tell them everything I know! They'll kick me out of the Bureau, but it doesn't have to be like this!"

He gazed down at her, head cocked, false pity on his features. "Oh, my dear Rebecca, I'm afraid that it does."

"But why?" she cried out, hoping some early morning hiker or nearby campers might hear her.

"Apparently I have a reputation to maintain."

She whipped her head to the side, offering him the shot he'd wanted, and he planted the bullet nicely just above and behind her ear in the approximate place Pendergast had been hit. A nicely shaped piece of her skull sheared off, slicing through her forehead, but leaving a bit of a broken edge above her eye where the bullet exited. Satisfied, he pocketed the gun and hiked to the nearest stand of trees, following the game trail down, looking for a sizeable branch. He wound up traveling a lot farther than he'd intended before he found a silvery, weathered length of wood. When he returned, she was still there, bleeding and silent. He crept down the slope a little ways and worked the branch like a lever to roll her. After two attempts, gravity kicked in and a chunk of the overhanging ledge below her broke away. She slithered backward out of sight like a serpent. Alex nearly lost his footing trying to regain the game trail, but was able to use the branch to steady himself. He took it with him as he made his way back down to where the Chevy was parked.

Alex drove back to the still blazing camper. He sat at the edge of the valley, willing his flesh to separate from that of McClune. The dead man's hands fell heavily from his wrists to the floor of the vehicle, oozing fluid. Alex rested a moment, willing Pendergast's hands to reform from the extra matter he'd retained from Knife Guy's body. He turned the vehicle around in a wide arc, and then floored it, wedging the branch so it kept the accelerator in place. Then, steering to keep the vehicle straight as it bumped small tussocks of weeds, he used a spare belt to hold it as steady as he could. He watched the orange bonfire grow larger and flung himself from the vehicle at the last moment, just as he'd noticed warmth radiating from the windshield inward. He struck and rolled, but not too badly, stopping on his side, one arm twisted beneath his body, his legs wound around each other like pretzels. The Avalanche managed to veer a little to the left before it struck the side of the camper anyway, showering itself with sparks and burning debris. Willing his borrowed body back into shape, he made it to his feet and walked away from the flaming evidence, heading toward the line of trees at the far side of the valley.


	16. Chapter 16

**16**

"What the hell?" the man roared, looming before them as they swept down the hallway.

Amanda alighted near him, rushing to his side the moment her feet touched the ground. Aloysius willed himself to remain hovering in mid-air just before the big guy.

"Cripes! I thought you were ghosts or somethin' like I woke up in the freakin' Haunted Mansion."

"Are you well?" Pendergast queried, slowly settling to his feet.

"We were racing!" the teenager blurted, wrapping herself about her partner affectionately.

"Why the hell are we here and not back at my place? What happened?"

"Someone was trying to gain entry to your house," the pale man mentioned.

"Halbot," Amanda said.

"Oh, jeeze. Yeah, I'da gotten the hell outta there, too. Wonder what she wanted?"

"When I first asked for Amanda at ArtReal, the receptionist spoke with someone of the same name."

"A cockroach by any other name," he muttered, mussing the girls' hair before shoving her away. "You said you were FBI, she wanted to know what was up."

"I believe she tried to pick the lock of your front door."

"Nosy old biddy," he grumbled, deflecting another attempt of the girl to playfully seize him. "Amanda, home."

It was dark, but some of the lights remained on. Alex looked around, and then sighed. "And your friend?"

Pendergast appeared in their midst, looking alarmed until he realized what must have happened. "Thank you. I was hoping for some explanation."

"I am famished," Roglitz announced, clapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly. He headed for the kitchen.

The FBI agent looked around. "Wouldn't you like to inspect the premises? Be certain that there's no one else…ah. Right. You are telepathic, specifically, right?"

"Specifically," the man acknowledged, opening cabinets and perusing ingredients. "It's not my only talent."

Pendergast leaned against the entryway, watching the man ignore the happy Quasar. "I take it I am well enough to return to my own body?"

"Oh, yeah. Shot in the head and getting trapped beneath a rockslide won't keep you down."

"Is that what happened? I suspected I'd been shot. How did…I assume you were able to, to _heal _me?"

"You are good to go," Roglitz said, fumbling with a package of Canadian bacon. He handed it to the girl who removed slices for him without ever opening the plastic that encased it.

"Then I am whole and healthy?"

"Perfectly," the man admitted, trying to juggle eggs and dropping one on the floor. "Get that, Kid."

"Mr. Roglitz, what I am attempting to ascertain is-"

"Psychic," he was told as the guy tapped the side of his head with a spatula. "Yeah. No marks, no scarring, no damage, no nada. It's just like it never happened."

Pale eyes narrowed. "And how, exactly were you able to heal a shot to the skull?"

"Talents!" Roglitz told him loudly as though addressing an audience from a stage. "There's always a few things you're better off not knowin'. Am I right?" The Russian dropped rendered bacon fat into a wok and swirled it as it melted to coat the sides. The fragrance was heavenly.

"When I open my eyes, what should I expect?"

"Good one. I left you in a cheap motel. More of a cabin-rental place for campers. Got you yer own log suite. Pretty small and it smells kinda musty, but it's better than leavin' ya out in the woods."

"Will I be alone?"

"I locked the door," Roglitz said, whacking a garlic clove with the flat of an interesting, hand-forged and hammered blade sunk into a thick handle of bamboo. The peel separated easily. He retrieved a plastic container from the freezer and deposited the papery skin within it. "Oh, your clothes were ruined, so you'll be wearing some stinky, dirty stuff that doesn't exactly fit you."

"Where did the dirty clothes come from?"

"A couple of dead guys."

The agent stared at the man, his lips a tight line. "I'm sensing there was much more going on than you magically healing me."

"Oh, yeah. You left a mess behind. Had to do a little cleanin' up."

"Alexander, I do not know you. I am unaware of your temperament, your morality. I am very aware you possess a brashness I myself tend to reserve for more selective moments, and I have seen your choice of weapons."

"I want rice," Alex realized, and turned to grab some.

"You deal with space aliens—something we do not yet possess in my reality."

"Oh, yeah? Didja see one?"

The agent's pale brows rose and he turned his head toward the library.

"No kiddin'. Nosy little bugger, ain'tcha?"

"It is my profession."

"So's mine, 'cept I'm offin' aliens and you bump off a-holes." He pried the lid from a container of old, cold rice from the refrigerator and sniffed it.

"My main metier is as an investigator," the agent corrected, entering the room so he could better watch the other man cook. "I am only authorized the use of a deadly weapon in scenarios of self-defense."

Alex chuckled. "Okay, sure. So I got the guy who nailed ya and two of his buddies. I swear it was totally self-defense."

"How so?"

"They tried to attack me after they saw that I'd killed him. Anyway-"

"By what means did you kill this man?"

"Uh…well, there's no evidence. Nothing decent, anyway. They'll be scratching their heads at the Bureau over this one for sure."

"You…impersonated a federal agent."

"Actually, they thought I was your son."

Pendergast looked confused. "Tristram?"

"Alvin?"

"Alban?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah, whatever." He removed the sliced bacon from the wok and set it in a wooden bowl. "They thought I was there to celebrate your death. Nice kid ya got there, huh?"

He'd thought the boy was dead.

"Well, I don't think they actually knew him," Roglitz continued, adding garlic and some thinly sliced onion to the fat in the wok. "The one guy—the one who shot you—he said he had seen you before somewhere…in a jungle? 'zat sound right?" He lifted his head, trying to remember, waiting for the trigger that would allow him to see something from Pendergast's past, but the access was gone. "Huh."

"Then they, or at least, _he_ was connected-"

"Nah. I think he was just used now and then for little piddly elimination jobs. Oh, sorry," he said, smiling grimly. "No insult intended."

"None taken. How did you manage to convince them that I…that you were my son?"

"It was an accident," he said nonchalantly, enjoying toying with the man. He cracked three eggs into the wok and began to scramble them with a maple rice paddle. "So there was those three, and then the Roland guy…Raymond, whatever his name was."

"You killed him, too?"

"Disgustin' pedophile," the man grunted, then smiled slightly as he stirred the fragrant contents of the wok.

"He was a serial killer."

"That, too."

"I don't understand how you came to encounter these four-"

"And the dame."

"There was a woman involved?"

Roglitz scraped eggs onto a plate, then glared at his guest. "Like you didn't know."

"Agent Ross?"

"Yeah, Rebecca. Becky. Becky Ross. Hey, isn't that somebody's name? Like somebody famous?"

Pendergast sighed, thinking Roglitz had left more mess behind than he'd claimed to clean up. "You may be thinking of Betsy Ross."

"Yeah. She's what, the Incredible Hulk's girlfriend or somethin'?" He poured a dollop of oil into the wok and swirled it so that it picked up the flavors of bacon, garlic and onion.

"Did you manage to kill her, too?"

Alex grinned as he sprinkled a salt blend from his palm into the oil and reached for a container of Szechwan peppercorns. "You were right. She was rattin' on ya."

"I was right? I don't recall ever bringing the matter up with you."

"Yeah, well…I don't know exactly what happened, but at some point I…I gained access to your memories."

Pendergast swallowed discreetly and felt overly warm in his suit. "Did you?"

"Only stuff I guess I needed to know. You were onto her, but you hadn't exposed her yet. Took care of it."

"You exposed her?"

"I…handled it."

"Alex," the southern man said softly, "you cannot kill a federal agent in my reality and get away with it."

"I was savin' yer lily-white behind," he reminded the other man gruffly.

"Was it…self defense?"

"It was poetic justice."

"You…ratted her to death?"

Roglitz snorted. "Nah. You'll find out eventually. Anyway…one, two, four, five…that's it, then. All tied up real pretty and delivered to your doorstep. Nobody's lookin' for ya, nobody should suspect a thing…'course you also have a wonderful opportunity to take full advantage of the fact that people think you're dead."

"What…people?"

"Oh, not your family and friends and stuff. Just the people who were trackin' ya. Lured you out into the foothills of hell to bump ya off, failed miserably, got what was comin' to 'em. I'm sure one of 'em musta told whoever they was reportin' to that you were gone. That freaky serial killer of yours even kept a souvenir."

Pendergast didn't want to know.

Roglitz was happy to tell him, "He kept a piece of your scalp. Musta found it on the slope after you fell off it."

The pale man looked a tad ashen.

"I told ya you're intact. Just like brand-new."

"And you indicated there is no evidence…of any of your foul deeds?"

"Fire takes care of a lot." He dumped rice into the hot oil to stir-fry.

"I see."

"You will."

The agent turned away with a hand on the back of one of the chairs that flanked Alex's table, gazing toward the small windows he had been spying through earlier. "I should get back," he said softly, and though it was too quiet for the other man's ears to have picked up, of course he "heard" him anyway.

"Amnesia is a useful thing."

"Too contrived."

"Just sayin'."

"You're certain you were thorough?"

"Destroyed everything I laid my hands on."

"So it would seem."

Eggs were dumped into the rice and stirred. Alex quickly julienned the bacon and added it, giving the whole shebang a few quick trips around the wok before emptying it all into his bowl. "Anytime."

While he desired to learn still more about this variation of reality, he determined it was likely in his best interest to get back to Colorado and assess the damage the psychic had wrought. The world seemed to liquefy, then darkened to black. Aloysius opened his eyes to a wood-paneled ceiling, an uncomfortable, thin, dank-smelling pad beneath his body, clothing that reeked of someone else's sweat, cheap cologne, and an acrid, metal and chemical smoke stench. It was quiet. Outside a songbird warbled and another answered from farther off. Then he heard a child cry out in joy, and laughter from someplace nearby. He tried to sit up and wound up coughing a little. His body felt surprisingly good, the joints loose and free, and the muscles lax. The word that came to mind was _rejuvenated_, and as a slant of sunshine pierced a window near him, he ran a hand through his hair, seeking a bald spot that wasn't there and thought, _yes…I have a second chance. _


End file.
